GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 


GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 


BY 
"CENTURION" 

A   CAPTAIN    IN   THE    BRITISH   ARMY 
WHO   HAS    SERVED    IN   FRANCE 


"The  nobler  a  soul  u,  the  more 
objects  of  compassion  it  hath'* 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  thai  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages t 

including  the  Scandinavian 


TO 
THE   DUKE    OF   CORNWALL'S    LIGHT   INFANTRY 

THE    DORSETS 

THE    SOMERSET   LIGHT   INFANTRY 

THE   WILTSHIRES 

THE    DEVONS 


389674 


PREFACE 

These  stones,  with  the  exception  of  the  two  chapters 
entitled  "The  Husbandmen,"  are  all  based  on  the  ex- 
periences of  the  writer  when  serving  in  France  and  else- 
where, or  on  those  of  fellow-officers  with  whom  he  has  been 
brought  into  contact.  The  writer  makes  no  claims — 
and  possesses  none — to  be  considered  a  writer  of  fiction. 
Several  of  these  stories  deal  with  the  battle  of  Mons,  the 
Marne,  the  Aisne,  Ypres,  and  the  Somme;  in  each  of 
these  cases  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  describe  things 
as  they  actually  occurred,  though  the  art  of  "camouflage" 
has  been  practised  to  the  extent  of  disguising  the  names 
of  the  characters  and  units  concerned.  Other  and  more 
strategical  pens  have  described  these  mighty  battles 
viewed  at  leisure  as  examples  of  the  art  of  war;  the 
writer  has  limited  himself  to  describing  them  as  they 
presented  themselves  in  glimpses  to  the  eyes  of  men  who, 
being  engaged  in  fighting  them,  had  no  time  to  speculate 
about  them.  The  particular  phases  recorded  in  these 
pages  are  here  made  public  for  the  first  time;  some  day 
they  will  doubtless  receive  more  orderly  treatment  in  the 
records  of  certain  West-country  regiments  and  the  his- 
tory of  two  batteries  of  artillery.  For  the  truth 
of  the  story  called  "No  Man's  Land"  the  author  does 
not  vouch;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it  is  based  on  a 
conversation  with  a  fellow-officer  one  night  in  billets 
behind  the  lines.  CENTURION. 

February,  igi8 


Vll 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

PREFACE               vii 

LIST  OF  ABBREVIATIONS  xi 

I.     The  Lieutenant     .....  3 

II.     The  Tide  of  Battle  18 

III.  The  Sower  of  Tares        .         .         .  36 

IV.  The  Crown  of  Thorns    .         .         .  52 
V.     The  A.  P.  M 68 

VI.     No  Man's  Land 85 

VII.     "Hot  Air"     .         .         .         ...         .104 

VIII.     A  Day  on  the  Somme    .         .         .  115 

IX.     The  Husbandmen  (i)               .         .         .  133 

X.     The  Old  Guard 151 

XI.     The  Batman 168 

XII.     The  Attack            .         .         .         .     -~  .  177 

XIII.  Field  Punishment           ....  196 

XIV.  The  Lost  Platoon           .         .         .      '   .  207 
XV.     Drafts 226 

XVI.     The  Canadians 235 

XVII.     The  Husbandmen  (2)     .         .         .         .  257 

XVIII.     A  Farm  in  Flanders       . "       .         .         .  273 

XIX.     The  Allies 281 

XX.     The  Powers  of  Darkness         .         .         .  297 

EPILOGUE:     The  Faith  of  the  Soldier     .         .  319 


LIST  OF  ABBREVIATIONS  USED 
IN  THIS  VOLUME 


O.P.  Observation  Post. 
F.O.O.  Forward  Observing  Officer. 
M.G.  Machine  Gun. 

L.G.  Lewis  Gun.  • 

F.P.  Field  Punishment. 

C.B.  Confinement  to  Barracks. 
I.H.L.  Imprisonment  with   Hard 
Labour. 

CM.  Court  Martial. 
G.C.M.  General  Court  Martial. 

M.I.  Military  Intelligence. 
A. P.M.  Assistant  Provost-Marshal. 

L.I.  Light  Infantry. 
R.F.A.  Royal  Field  Artillery. 
R.GA  Royal  Garrison  Artillery. 


C.O. 

o.c. 

G.O.C. 

N.C.O. 

H.Q. 
G.H.Q. 

M.O. 
R.T.O. 
L.ofC. 

H.E. 
A.A.G. 

A.G. 
A.D.M.S. 


Commanding  Officer. 

Officer  Commanding. 

General  Officer  Com- 
manding. 

Non-commis'ed  Officer. 

Headquarters. 

General  Headquarter*. 

Medical  Officer. 

RailwayTransp' t  Officer. 

Lines  of  Communication. 

High  Explosive. 

Assistant  Adjutant  Gen- 
eral. 

Adjutant-General. 

Assistant  Director  of 
Medical  Services. 


GLOSSARY 


A.B.C.  Shop. 

Mr.  Cox. 

Bully  Beef. 

[Bob. 

Chit. 

Trolley. 


Aerated  Bread  Company's  refreshment  and  tea  room. 

Of  Cox  &  Co.,  Army  Bankers. 

Canned  corned  beef. 

Shilling  (24  cents). 

Memo,  or  note. 

Hand-car  or  push-car. 


GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 


GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

I 

THE  LIEUTENANT 

ON  THE  day  he  was  born  his  father  wrote  two 
letters.  One  was  addressed  to  the  head  of  a 
certain  school  of  ancient  foundation  in  a 
southern  county;  the  other  to  the  Dean  of  a  col- 
lege at  Oxford.  For,  like  some  London  clubs,  they 
took  a  good  deal  of  getting  into  and  his  father,  whose 
name  was  on  the  registers  of  both  of  them,  deter- 
mined to  leave  nothing  to  chance. 

The  boy  grew  and  waxed  strong  in  spirit.  He  lay 
for  hours  on  his  back  cooing  to  himself  and  doing 
mighty  Swedish  exercises,  breasting  the  air  like  a 
strong  swimmer  with  his  arms  and  kicking  lustily 
with  his  legs.  "Isn't  he  sweet?"  said  his  mother  to 
the  doctor  for  the  thousandth  time. 

"Hum!  his  patellar  reflexes  seem  all  right,"  said 
the  doctor  who  was  used  to  such  maternal  ecstasies. 

They  called  him  Anthony — Tony  for  short.  He 
began  life  with  a  face  of  extraordinary  solemnity  that 
was  almost  senile,  but  it  grew  younger  as  he  grew 
older.  His  eyes,  which  were  at  first  a  neutral  colour 
inclining  to  mouse-gray,  gradually  changed  till  the 
irises  revealed  the  deep  brown  tint  of  his  mother's, 


4  -  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

so  that  looking  into  them  she  seemed  to  be  looking 
into  a  mirror.  But  his  nondescript  nose  took  on  the 
clear-cut  Grecian  profile  of  his  father.  You  could 
see  just  that  nose,  slightly  defaced  by  time,  on  the 
stone  effigies  of  chain-mail  knights  in  the  village 
church,  where  they  lay  under  the  trefoil  arches  with 
their  feet  crossed  and  their  hands  folded,  resting 
from  the  last  crusade.  The  first  discovery  that  he 
made  was  that  his  toes,  which  seemed  to  remain 
with  him,  were  his  own.  The  next  thing  he  dis- 
covered was  that  in  the  immensity  around  him 
some  things  were  near  and  others  distant,  and 
that  sometimes,  as  he  put  out  an  exploring  hand  to 
grasp  her  breast,  his  mother  was  within  reach  and 
sometimes  not — whereby  he  arrived  at  a  distinction 
which  has  vexed  the  metaphysicians  for  centuries:  the 
difference  between  self  and  not-self.  But  in  the  case 
of  his  mother,  unlike  other  of  the  big  people  who 
hovered  round  him  from  time  to  time,  he  never  suc- 
ceeded in  completely  establishing  this  distinction, 
and  all  through  his  life  distance  only  brought  her 
more  near,  till  one  day — but  that  comes  later. 

One  night,  when  he  was  about  three  years  old,  he 
was  lying  asleep  in  his  cot  in  the  nursery  when  a  log 
fell  from  the  untended  fire,  and  sending  up  a  spurt  of 
flame  threw  a  gigantic  shadow  on  the  wall  by  his 
bed.  He  woke  with  a  start  and  a  cry,  for  the  shadow 
was  now  leaping,  now  crouching,  as  though  it  were 
going  to  pounce  upon  him.  And  he  cried  lustily. 
The  next  moment  there  was  a  light  footfall  of  bare 
feet,  two  soft  arms  were  clasping  his  neck,  and  a 


THE  LIEUTENANT  5 

shower  of  auburn  hair,  soft  as  silk,  fell  around  his 
face.  "What  is  the  matter  with  Mummy's  boy?  Is 
he  frightened  then  ?  Where's  the  little  man  who  was 
going  to  kill  Apollyon?  What  will  poor  Mummy 
do  when  she  meets  Aoollyon  if  her  little  man  is 
afraid?" 

"Tse  not  afraid,"  he  said  stoutly,  his  lips  quivering. 
And  after  that,  although  he  sometimes  knew  fear,  he 
was  never  afraid.  For  he  always  remembered  in 
the  nick  of  time  that  some  day  Mummy  would  want 
him  to  fight  Apollyon.  But  he  had  made  a  great 
discovery — almost  as  portentous  as  the  discovery  of 
self  and  not-self.  He  had  discovered  that  he  had 
two  selves,  the  self  which  said  "I  am  afraid"  and  the 
self  which  said  "Go  to!  I  am  not  afraid."  And 
from  that  day  he  learnt  to  despise  the  former  and 
respect  the  latter.  The  first  he  called  "Mr.  Feeble- 
Mind,"  and  the  second  "Mr.  Great-Heart."  And 
when  he  was  sure  he  was  alone  he  often  talked  with 
the  former,  hurling  the  most  derisive  epithets  at  it 
and  bidding  it  get  behind  him,  for  it  had  an  alias 
which  was  "Temptation." 

His  early  world  was  bounded  by  a  yew  hedge 
which  marked  the  end  of  the  bowling  green.  The 
house,  which  was  visited  on  one  occasion  by  a  party 
of  grave  gentlemen  in  spectacles — he  learnt  after- 
ward that  they  called  themselves  the  County 
Archaeological  Society — was  shaped  like  the  letter 
"E"  and  had  great  gables  with  mullioned  windows 
whose  leaden  casements  glowed  like  fire  in  the 
westering  sun.  The  oak-panelling  was  black  with 


6  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS  , 

age,  and  on  the  plaster  wall  of  one  of  the  bedrooms 
Moses  and  the  patriarchs  were  frescoed  in  doublet 
and  hose,  and  Pharaoh's  daughter  stooped  over  the 
bulrushes  in  a  farthingale.  Tony  loved  it  at  first 
because  it  seemed  specially  designed  to  enable  him 
to  play  hide  and  seek  in  its  oak  closets,  long  corridors, 
and  deep  alcoves,  and  he  loved  it  to  the  end  of  his 
life  because  it  was  his  home.  Beyond  the  yew 
hedge  was  the  paddock,  beyond  the  paddock  was  the 
park,  and  above  the  tops  of  the  beeches  Tony  could 
see  the  edge  of  the  world,  which  was  a  chalk  down. 
Beyond  that  chalk  down,  he  felt  assured,  was  the 
Celestial  City,  although  he  had  heard  grown-ups 
call  it  "the  howizon." 

He  passed  from  the  hands  of  a  tutor  to  the  puolic 
school  for  which  his  father  had  put  his  name  down  on 
the  day  of  his  birth.  He  began  as  the  lowliest  of  fags 
and  the  first  thing  he  discovered  was  that  for  his 
name,  which  was  illustrious,  was  rudely  substituted 
another  and  a  homelier — "Freckles."  He  came 
back  after  his  first  half  with  an  immense  stock  of 
knowledge,  not  to  be  found  in  books,  and  a  vocabu- 
lary which  was  unfamiliar  to  everyone  at  home 
except  his  father — a  vocabulary  in  which  "to  thoke" 
is  to  slack,  "to  brock,"  is  to  bully,  in  which  "Long- 
meads"  stands  for  a  day  off  and  "Moab"  does  duty 
for  a  lavatory.  "It  is  a  vocabulary  which  once 
learnt  is  never  forgotten;  men  of  his  school  speak  it  in 
the  hill-stations  of  India,  on  the  African  veldt,  in  the 
back  flats  of  Australia,  and  wherever  two  or  three  of 
them  are  gathered  together.  Also  he  exhibited  a 


THE  LIEUTENANT  7 

discoloured  eye.  At  all  of  which  his  father  rejoiced, 
but  his  mother  was  sorrowful,  feeling  that  he  had 
passed  without  the  cloister  of  her  heart.  But  in 
this  she  was  mistaken. 

In  due  time  he  reached  the  dizzy  heights  of  the 
Sixth  and  became  a  prefect  with  the  right  to  turn  his 
trousers  up  and  to  wear  brown  boots,  which  is  only 
permitted  to  the  elect.  Also  he  won  his  cap  as 
centre  forward  in  the  School  Fifteen.  Small  boys 
imitated  him,  big  boys  envied  him,  and  he  had  a 
retinue  of  clients  like  a  Roman  patron.  He  put 
down  bullying  in  his  house  with  a  strong  hand — and 
other  things.  By  this  time  he  had  learnt  to  turn  out 
a  good  hexameter  and  a  neat  iambic;  also  to  put 
Burke  into  a  Latin  prose  that  was  stately  without 
being  pompous. 

Thence  he  went  to  Oxford.  His  name  was  already 
on  the  books  of  his  father's  old  college,  but,  as  it 
turned  out,  he  needed  no  precedence,  for  he  took  a 
classical  scholarship.  There  he  learned  the  same 
lesson  that  he  had  learnt  at  school — namely,  that 
the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  live  down  an  outside  repu- 
tation; the  greater  the  reputation  the  more  modest 
it  behoves  you  to  be.  He  found  that  a  first-year  man 
does  not  call  on  a  second-year  man,  but  waits  to 
be  called  on.  No!  not  though  the  one  be  a  scholar 
and  the  other  a  commoner.  Also  that  one  is  never 
elected  into  the  best  clubs  or  college  societies  in 
one's  first  term.  But  not  being  a  pushful  person 
he  had  really  no  need  to  learn  these  things,  for  he 
knew  them  by  instinct.  But  men  sought  him  out 


8  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

and  discovered  his  worth  so  that  in  his  second  term, 
when  he  lavishly  returned  the  hospitalities  of  the 
first,  the  size  of  his  battels  drew  a  mild  rebuke  from 
the  Dean.  But  beyond  occasionally  getting  gated, 
he  managed  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  the  Dons, 
who  can  rarely  resist  the  man  who  is  at  once  an 
athlete  and  a  scholar.  After  tubbing  in  the  Morri- 
son fours,  he  rowed  seven  in  the  Torpids  and  his 
boat  did  a  bump  every  night  near  the  "gut."  Great 
faggots  blazed  in  the  quad  the  last  night,  and  for 
once  in  his  life  Tony  got  rather  drunk  and  was  with 
difficulty  restrained  from  mounting  the  pyre,  having 
to  be  put  to  bed  by  his  friends,  loudly  protesting 
that  he  was  Joan  of  Arc.  He  got  ploughed  in 
Divinity  Mods  for  a  character-sketch  of  St.  Peter, 
which  the  Examiners  voted  learned  but  profane; 
your  Anglican  don  does  not  like  to  hear  the  disciple 
described  as  "the  enfant  terrible  of  the  Twelve."  Also 
he  entertained  a  Socialist  chimney-sweeper  in  his 
rooms  like  a  man  and  a  brother  and  (what  was  far 
worse  in  the  eyes  of  Anglican  Dons),  a  Nonconform- 
ist draper  with  whom  he  insisted  on  discussing  the 
right  of  entry  in  single-school  areas.  For  it  was  his 
fashion  to  try  all  things.  In  long  walks  over  Shot- 
over  and  Cumnor,  in  high  talks  at  night  in  the  quad 
or  in  his  rooms,  he  discussed  in  the  manner  of  Plato's 
dialectics,  the  Nature  of  the  State,  the  Responsibili- 
ties of  the  Empire  toward  Subject-races,  the  Mean- 
ing of  Good,  the  Nature  of  Truth,  and  the  Orna- 
ments Rubric.  For  of  such  things  do  men  talk  at 
Oxford,  plumbing  the  depths  of  speculation  in  a 


THE  LIEUTENANT  9 

world  where  speculation  takes  the  place  of  experi- 
ence and  men  see  Life,  like  the  dwellers  in  the  cave  of 
Plato's  myth,  by  the  shadows  that  the  outer  world 
throws  upon  its  enchanted  walls. 

His  first  long  vacation  was  less  than  half-way 
through  when  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand 
rose  upon  the  horizon.  It  first  appeared  when  his 
father  opened  the  newspaper  at  breakfast  one 
morning  and  read  out  that  an  Archduke  had  been 
assassinated  in  a  tiny  satrapy  of  the  Austrian 
Empire.  "Another  of  those  Balkan  melodramas/' 
he  said  lightly  as  he  turned  to  the  stock  markets. 
But  in  a  few  days  the  cloud  grew  bigger.  The  bank- 
rate  went  up  like  a  rocket,  dark  hints  of  "mobiliza- 
tion" appeared,  the  word  "ultimatum"  was  repeated 
in  the  papers,  one  read  curiously  of  an  encounter 
between  patrols  on  the  Franco-German  frontier, 
and  noted  with  consternation  that  a  man  had  been 
killed.  And  then  the  storm  burst.  The  King  called 
for  men. 

The  cornfields  were  brilliant  with  scarlet  pimper- 
nel and  rest-harrow,  and  the  wheat,  changing  from 
sea-green  to  gold  and  heavy  in  the  ear,  gave  prom- 
ise of  an  early  harvest.  But  father  and  son  ceased 
to  talk  of  days  among  the  stubble;  the  boy  was  silent, 
until  one  day  he  announced  his  intention  of  "doing 
his  bit."  His  mother  turned  pale  but  said  nothing. 
That  night  she  entered  his  room,  according  to  her 
habit,  to  kiss  him  good-night.  She  went  down  on 
her  knees  beside  him  and  with  her  arms  round  his 
neck  said:  "Don't — you  are  all  I  have."  He  looked 


io  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

straight  into  her  face  and  said  reproachfully: 
"Mummy!  who  was  it  told  me — do  you  remember? 
— never  to  fear  Apollyon?"  And  from  that  mo- 
ment she  knew  it  was  useless,  nor  did  she  try  to  dis- 
suade him,  for  she  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 
They  remained  in  long  communion  as  he  told  her  all 
the  secrets  of  his  heart,  and  when  she  rose  to  go  her 
eyes  were  dry,  for  in  that  hour  she  knew,  as  she  had 
not  known  since  he  was  a  little  child,  that  he  and 
she  were  one. 

He  joined  the  O.T.C.  He  learnt  section  drill, 
platoon  drill,  company  drill,  and  many  other  things. 
And  then  one  day  he  applied  for  a  commission.  He 
duly  filled  up  all  the  interrogatories  on  M.T.  392  and 
against  "unit  preferred"  he  wrote  the  name  of  a 
well-known  West-Country  regiment  in  whose  officers' 
mess  his  family  name  was  a  household  word.  And  he 
sent  it  to  his  old  Head  for  the  usual  certificate  of 
moral  character.  He  blushed  when  it  came  back,  and 
was  slightly  annoyed,  for  the  Head,  not  content  with 
the  words,  "I  certify,"  had  added  an  afterthought: 
"He  is  an  excellent  fellow;  one  of  the  best." 

At  the  School  of  Instruction  he  learnt  the  art  of 
war,  his  tutor  being  a  Major  invalided  home  from  the 
front  who  taught  him  all  that  can  be  learnt  by  oral 
instruction  on  rationing,  patrols,  relief  by  sections, 
and  the  making  out  of  work-tables.  And  when  all 
home-keeping  folk  were  in  bed  he  marched  them  out 
in  column  of  fours  to  a  lacerated  field  where  they 
practised  "Night  Op. "with  the  aid  of  a  trip-wire,  a 
flare  pistol,  and  implements  of  husbandry.  The 


THE  LIEUTENANT  u 

Major  was  a  wise  man;  he  had  drilled  with  the 
recruits  of  his  own  regiment  on  the  square  when  he 
had  been  first  gazetted  from  Sandhurst,  and  he  held 
that  the  best  training  for  an  officer  is  to  learn  to  do 
what  you  want  done.  Wherefore  he  made  his 
cadets  learn  their  job  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow, 
dig  their  own  trenches,  and  throw  out  their  own  saps 
— always  remembering,  when  you  begin  to  dig  a  sap, 
to  put  up  a  sandbag  on  the  end  of  a  fork  first,  other- 
wise you  may  never  live  to  finish  it. 

The  palms  of  their  hands  became  as  hard  as  a 
cobbler's,  but  it  was  good  schooling,  for  it  taught 
them  the  most  valuable  of  all  lessons:  to  know  when 
they  were  giving  orders  exactly  how  much  they  were 
asking  of  their  men  to  do.  And  in  dealing  with  men 
this  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  Also  he  gave  them 
two  pieces  of  advice,  one  of  which  was  that  at  Mess 
you  are  practically  on  parade  and  should  behave 
accordingly;  the  other  that  the  first  duty  of  a  young 
officer  is  to  place  the  comfort  and  well-being  of  his 
men  before  his  own.  But  being  a  gentleman  Tony 
did  not  need  to  learn  the  one;  and  having  been  head 
of  his  house  he  had  already  learned  the  other.  So 
that  when  the  O.C.  sent  in  his  report  upon  him,  on 
his  "paper-work,"  "bearing,"  "punctuality,"  and 
"power  of  handling  men,"  he  marked  the  first  three 
"good,"  but  the  fourth  "excellent." 

The  Major  must,  I  think,  have  taken  rather  a 
fancy  to  him,  for  one  day  he  asked  him  if  he  knew 
anything  about  revolver-shooting  and  on  being  an- 
swered in  the  negative,  he  took  him  privily  aside  and 


12  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

taught  him  a  thing  or  two — first  that  you  mustn't 
grip  the  revolver  too  tight  or  it  will  throw  your 
wrist  ofF,  second  that  you  really  fire  with  the  whole 
hand  rather  than  with  the  trigger-finger  and  should 
absorb  the  shock  into  your  whole  frame,  and,  last 
and  greatest  of  these,  that  in  shooting  a  descending 
figure  you  should  incline  the  whole  body  as  you 
lower  the  arm  and  never  make  a  series  of  elbow- 
jerks.  At  the  end  of  it  all  he  plugged  the  target  with 
six  shots  in  an  eight-inch  circle  and  the  Major  gave 
him  his  blessing — and  his  revolver.  He  was  to 
owe  his  life  more  than  once  to  what  the  Major 
had  taught  him. 

Then  he  joined  his  battalion  and  was  put  in  com- 
mand of  a  platoon. 

"It's  very  like  being  a  prefect  again  with  the  Adju- 
tant as  the  'Head,'"  he  wrote  to  his  mother  of  his 
first  day's  duty  as  orderly  officer,  and  so  it  was.  To 
carry  on  as  orderly  officer  from  reveille  to  tattoo— 
and  later — requires  tact.  From  the  time  when  he 
inspected  the  issue  of  rations  in  the  early  dawn  to  the 
hour  when  he  turned  out  the  quarter-guard  just 
before  midnight  he  was  responsible  for  the  "tone" 
of  that  camp.  He  had  to  see  that  everything  from 
cook-house  to  guard-room  was  "clean  and  regular," 
to  examine  the  rations  with  the  eye  of  an  Inspector 
of  Food  and  Drugs  and  to  smell  the  men's  dinners 
with  the  nose  of  a  chef,  to  see  that  the  utensils  were 
unspotted  from  the  world  and  the  rifles  of  the  guard, 
barring  the  safety-catch,  ready  to  go  off  of  them- 
selves. Also  he  had  to  hear  and  adjudicate  upon 


THE  LIEUTENANT  13 

"complaints"  like  a  cadi  under  a  palm-tree.  To  do 
this  kind  of  thing  properly  you  have  to  be  vigilant 
without  being  fussy  and  alert  without  being  restive 
—otherwise  your  orderly  sergeant  and  sergeant  of 
the  guard  get  fussy  and  restive,  too,  and  that  kind  of 
thing  is  catching  and  bad  for  the  men.  He  com- 
pleted his  report  to  the  Adjutant  next  morning  with 
the  words,  "Nothing  unusual  has  occurred  during  my 
tour  of  duty  with  the  exception  of  that  noted  over- 
leaf." The  Adjutant  said  nothing — and  an  Adju- 
tant's silence  is  golden.  It  means  that  you  will  do. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  get  to  know  his  men. 
He  taught  them  that  cleanliness  was  next  to  godli- 
ness and  having  commended  their  souls  to  the 
padre  he  devoted  himself  to  their  bodies.  He  made 
them  take  their  caps  off  on  parade  to  see  if  their 
hair  was  parted  and  hold  out  their  hands  like  bishops 
at  confirmation  to  see  if  their  finger-nails  were 
clean.  Also  he  encouraged  them  to  play  "footer," 
which  keeps  the  pores  open  and  is  an  infallible 
remedy  for  "grouse"  disease.  And  one  night  he 
talked  to  them  like  a  man  and  a  brother  in  one  of 
the  hutments  on  the  history  of  the  regiment.  He 
told  them  of  a  certain  glorious  episode  in  the  de- 
fence of  the  Residency  in  virtue  of  which  they  were 
entitled  to  call  themselves  "L.I."  and  how  the  soup- 
tureen,  now  safely  banked  with  the  regimental 
mess-plate,  got  the  hole  in  it.  Also  why  they  were 
entitled  to  wear  a  red  flash  on  their  hats  and  a  half- 
red  pugaree  on  their  helmets  in  virtue  of  their  hav- 
ing shown  the  red  feather  by  way  of  biting  their 


i4  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

thumbs  at  Montcalm's  men  in  Quebec.  And  other 
such  things,  till  his  men  felt — and,  as  things  turned 
out  later,  proved — that  the  honour  of  the  regiment 
was  dearer  to  them  than  their  lives.  They  began  to 
think  better  of  the  geometry  of  platoon  drill  after 
this,  and  to  see  that  platoon,  advancing  in  column  of 
fours,  form  forward  into  column  of  sections  when  he 
uttered  the  words  "On  the  left,  form  sections,"  was 
as  good  as  watching  the  rhythmical  swing  of  a  well- 
stroked  eight.  And  by  reason  of  all  this,  the  O.C. 
commended  him,  the  captain  of  his  company  cher- 
ished him,  and  his  platoon-sergeant  delighted  to  do 
his  bidding.  And  when  the  battalion  went  route- 
marching  over  the  downs,  moving  like  a  long  cater- 
pillar as  each  section  of  fours  rose  and  fell  over  the 
crest,  and  he  marched  at  the  head  of  his  platoon,  he 
felt  it  was  good,  very  good,  to  be  alive. 

He  went  out  with  his  battalion  to  the  front.  His 
letters  home  told  his  mother  that  he  was  having  "a 
ripping  time."  He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  wrote 
them  in  a  cave  of  clay  with  his  feet  in  water  and  his 
head  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  damp  coke  and 
damper  wood.  He  endured  without  grousing  rain  and 
cold  and  frost  and  mud  and,  what  was  far  harder  to 
bear,  a  sad  deficiency  in  machine-guns  and  trench- 
mortars  that  were  made  out  of  stove-pipes. 

He  went  through  the  second  battle  of  Ypres,  and 
when  his  company  officer  and  all  his  fellow  officers 
were  knocked  out  he  carried  on  with  a  handful  of 
men  in  a  hole  about  the  size  of  a  dewpond  and  saved 
the  position.  The  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  his 


THE  LIEUTENANT  15 

name  appeared  in  the  Gazette  with  the  Military  Cross. 
The  only  comment  he  made  was  that  other  fellows 
had  a  better  claim  to  it — which  was  untrue.  And 
when  he  came  home  on  seven  days'  leave  his  mother 
discovered  that  her  boy  had  become  a  man.  At 
twenty  he  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  thirty-five — 
wiser,  perhaps,  for  he  had  seen  things  such  as  come 
not  once  in  a  generation  to  the  sons  of  men.  His 
leave  coincided  with  one  of  those  recurrent  interludes 
in  which  that  elusive  mirage  "the  end  of  the  war" 
appears  before  the  wistful  eyes  of  men,  and  they 
talked  of  his  future  at  Oxford.  But  he  shook  his 
head. 

"No,"  he  said  pensively.  "I  shall  never  go 
back,  Mummy — I  couldn't.  My  year's  scattered 
like  the  leaves  of  the  forest,"  he  went  on  as,  with  his 
back  to  them,  he  gazed  through  the  window  at  the 
dead  leaves  spinning  under  the  beeches  in  the  park. 
"And  anyhow  I'm  too  old."  This  at  twenty. 
But  they  knew  what  he  meant  and  talked  of  the 
Bar,  a  seat  in  Parliament,  Quarter  Sessions.  To  all 
of  which  he  returned  no  answer. 

He  went  back.  They  saw  him  off  by  the  boat- 
train  from  Victoria.  He  held  his  mother  a  long 
time  and  kissed  the  eyes  into  which  his  own  had  first 
looked  when  he  opened  them  in  wonder  upon  the 
world.  And  father  and  mother  went  home  to- 
gether to  the  big  country-house  which  suddenly 
seemed  to  have  grown  still  bigger — so  forlorn  and 
empty  did  it  seem. 

One  night  he  had  to  go  out  on  patrol — a  recon- 


16  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS  . 

noitring  patrol,  which  is  always  a  small  affair  and 
does  not  command  the  full  complement  of  a  fighting 
patrol.  He  sat  in  his  dug-out  writing  a  letter  home 
on  the  flimsy  of  a  "Messages  and  Signals"  form. 
The  N.C.O.  appeared  at  the  dug-out  and  raised  the 
screen  of  sacking.  Tony  folded  up  the  letter,  sealed 
it,  addressed  it,  and  marked  the  envelope,  "To  be 
forwarded  only  in  the  event  of  my  death."  Then  he 
examined  the  chambers  of  his  revolver  and  rose  and 
went  out  into  the  night. 

Far  away  across  a  sodden  land  lit  up  by  the  flashes 
of  guns  like  sheet-lightning,  across  a  waste  of  waters 
where  a  chain  of  destroyers  rose  and  fell  with  the 
Channel  swell,  beyond  the  rolling  downs  of  the  south 
country,  a  woman  in  a  great  house  awoke  with  a  cry 
out  of  a  troubled  sleep  and  put  out  her  hand.  "Jack, " 
she  said,  "Tony's  dead!" 

Her  husband  woke  with  a  start  and  bent  over  her. 

"Nonsense,  Mary,"  he  said  with  faltering  lips, 
"you've  been  dreaming."  She  was'sitting  up  in  bed, 
a  shower  of  hair,  still  auburn,  and  still  soft  as  silk, 
falling  about  her  shoulders  as  she  gazed  at  the  win- 
dow. She  sank  back  and  buried  her  head  in  the 
pillows. 

"No!"  she  said.     "I've  seen  him." 

Three  days  later  a  boy  came  up  the  drive  with  an 
orange-coloured  envelope  in  his  hand.  The  father 
saw  him  approaching  from  the  dining-room  window, 
and  something  pierced  him  like  a  two-edged  sword. 
He  learnt — but  that  was  later — that  Tony  had  gone 


THE  LIEUTENANT  17 

out  on  patrol  with  a  corporal;  they  had  been  sur- 
prised by  a  party  of  the  enemy  and  the  N.C.O. 
had  got  badly  hit.  He  begged  Tony  to  leave  him. 
But  the  boy  took  him  up  on  his  young  shoulders  and 
made  his  way  back.  Sometimes  he  fell,  for  the  man 
was  heavy  and  the  ground  bad,  but  he  laboured  on. 
A  star-shell  went  up  behind  them,  and  the  earth 
was  suddenly  stricken  with  a  pallid  glare  of  light. 
Then  a  hail  of  bullets  enveloped  them  and  the  boy 
fell — this  time  to  rise  no  more.  The  corporal  said 
afterward — this  to  the  boy's  parents  when  they 
came  to  see  the  corporal  in  hospital — that  the  boy 
had  said  something  at  the  last — "something  I 
couldn't  quite  understand,  ma'am,  not  being  a 
scholar  like  him,  something  that  sounded  like  'Apol- 
lyon.'  But  I  fancy  his  mind  was  wandering-like. 
And  he  never  said  no  more." 


II 

THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE 

.-•« 

"Thf  Tide  of  Battle"  is  a  story  of  the  first  battle  of  Ypres,  and  it  is  based 
on  actual  incidents. 

THE  aromatic  mist  of  a  late  autumn  morning 
wrapped  the  wood  in  a  woolly  shroud,  and 
there  was  an  unmistakable  nip  in  the  air. 
From  every  twig  of  beech  and  pine  and  chestnut 
hung  beads  of  moisture  which,  when  they  caught  the 
sun  as  it  pierced  the  mists,  sparkled  like  crystals. 
Little  drops  of  moisture  hung  also  on  the  grass  of 
some  newly-turned  sods  of  earth  close  by  the  turf 
emplacements,  and  as  the  mist  cleared  one  could  see 
that  these  sods  formed  a  mound  some  six  feet  by  two. 
It  was  the  grave  of  the  battery  sergeant-major. 
Some  eight  hours  earlier  it  had  been  dug  by  the  gun 
detachment,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  while  the 
owls  hooted  in  the  wood;  and  the  captain  com- 
manding the  battery  had  recited  so  much  of  the 
Burial  Service  as  he  could  remember,  throwing  in  a 
few  handfuls  of  earth  upon  the  still  form  under  the 
blanket  when  he  reached  the  solemn  words  of  com- 
mittal. He  looked  at  the  grave  as  he  walked  to  the 
telephone  dug-out,  and  wondered  what  furthercasual- 
ties  the  day  had  in  store  for  him. 

At  that  moment  an  orderly  came  up  and  handed 

18 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  19 

him  a  note.  He  opened  it.  It  was  written  on  a 
"  Messages  and  Signals"  form,  in  blue  pencil. 

"A  new  target,"  he  said  to  the  subaltern. 
"Miller,  I  want  you  to  go  forward  and  observe. 

We're  to  take  on  Z church.  The  Germans 

must  have  been  using  it  as  an  O.P.  since  they  drove 
back  the  yth  Cavalry  Brigade  yesterday.  We 
haven't  got  it  registered." 

He  took  his  map  and  ivory  scale,  and  worked  out 
the  angle  of  sight  from  the  range  and  the  height  of 
the  new  target.  The  gun  detachments  were  already 
at  their  stations.  The  direction  was  put  on  the  dial- 
sight.  Two  men  then  threw  the  trail  over  with  the 
aid  of  handspikes.  As  he  shouted  out  the  range  and 
angle  of  sight,  No.  I  of  each  gun  repeated  his  words 
like  a  litany;  there  was  a  pause  as  the  layer  moved  the 
handle  of  the  clinometer-sight  till  he  shouted  "set." 

"Lyddite,"  said  the  Captain.  The  loader  thrust 
a  shell  into  the  breach  and  closed  the  wedge. 

The  Captain  took  out  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and  waited. 

About  ten  minutes  later  the  telephonist,  who  had 
been  waiting  with  his  ear  at  the  receiver,  spoke: 

"Mr.  Miller  has  arrived  at  the  O.  P.,  sir." 

"No.  I  gun  ready?" 

"Ready,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"Fire." 

The  loader  pulled  the  lanyard.  There  was  a  loud 
report  and  a  sheet  of  orange  flame. 

"One  degree  more  right,  sir,"  said  the  telephonist, 
with  the  receiver  still  at  his  ear.  The  section  com- 
mander repeated  it. 


20  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  layer  readjusted  the  dial-sight,  and  the  gun 
was  fired  again.  There  was  a  pause. 

"Ten  minutes  more  left,  sir,"  called  the  telephonist. 

"Ten  minutes  more  left,"  chanted  the  Section 
Commander  and  Number  One  in  succession. 

There  was  another  pause.  "Hit,  sir,"  said  the 
telephonist.  The  Captain,  having  given  the  order 
"repeat,"  mounted  a  ladder  by  a  haystack  and 
turned  his  glasses  to  the  southeast.  What  he  saw 
apparently  satisfied  him,  and  he  descended  the 
haystack. 

The  air  fluttered,  there  was  a  loud  thud,  a  crashing 
of  timber  some  fifty  yards  to  the  left,  and  out  of  the 
living  trees  rose  the  mirage-like  silhouette  of  a  dead 
tree  outlined  in  a  crayon  of  coal-black  smoke  above 
the  wood  which  drifted  into  nothingness  against  the 
sky.  No  one  took  any  notice.  At  such  times  the 
russet-brown  leaves  of  the  beeches  overhead  trem- 
bled violently,  and  for  some  minutes  afterward 
floated  down  upon  the  men  below  till  they  came  to 
rest  on  their  heads  and  tunics  and  there  remained. 
From  the  direction  of  the  morning  sun  there  came  a 
loud  and  continuous  crackle  of  musketry,  the  mo- 
notonous tap-tap  of  machine-guns,  and  occasionally 
there  was  a  sound  like  the  crack  of  a  whip  over  the 
heads  of  the  gunners. 

"What  d'you  make  of  it,  Bovington?"  said  the 
Battery  Commander. 

"It  sounds  nearer,  sir,"  said  the  subaltern. 

"So  I  think,"  said  the  other  pensively.  "I  don't 
like  it.  I'm  afraid  we're  being  driven  back.  The 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  21 

2nd  Welsh  and  the  Queen's  are  up  there.  And  the 
German  heavies  are  busy.  God!  I  wish  Ordnance 
rationed  us  half  as  liberally." 

"Yes,  I  thought  so,"  he  added,  as  he  read  another 
H.Q.  message,  brought  up  by  an  orderly.  "We've 
got  to  shorten  the  range  again.  Give  them  shrapnel 
over  an  arc  of  ninety.  Hullo,  wait  a  minute,  ser- 
geant. The  wagon  limber's  on  fire.  Get  some 
earth  and  that  tarpaulin!  Quick!" 

They  ran  to  the  limber,  and  the  sergeant  snatched 
the  loose  sods  from  the  newly-covered  grave  and 
threw  them  on  the  limber,  while  the  gunners  plas- 
tered it  with  spadefuls  of  damp  earth.  There  was  a 
loud  pop,  then  another.  Then  silence.  The  Cap- 
tain inspected  the  limber-wagon  cautiously. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said  to  the  subaltern  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "There  are  only  two  or  three  cart- 
ridges gone  off.  If  the  back  of  the  limber  hadn't 
been  forced  outward,  the  whole  box  of  tricks  would 
have  exploded.  And  we  haven't  any  to  spare.  I 
hope  the  teams  are  all  right.  We've  already  lost  a 
leader  and  a  wheeler  of  No.  I  gun." 

Meanwhile  the  gun  had  been  swung  round  again 
to  its  former  position  facing  east.  The  gunners 
threw  off  their  tunics  and  rolled  up  their  shirt- 
sleeves. The  gun-layer,  having  moved  the  sight- 
elevating  gear  to  adjust  the  shortened  range,  gave 
a  twist  to  the  gun-elevating  gear  till,  seeing  the' 
insect-like  crawl  of  the  bubble,  he  stopped.  This 
done,  they  commenced  to  spray  the  German  lines 
with  a  hail  of  shrapnel. 


22  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  sun  rose  higher  in  the  heavens,  and  the  mists 
cleared.  The  Captain  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood  some  ten  yards  in  front  of  the  guns,  keeping 
well  away  to  the  left  to  avoid  the  blast  of  his  guns, 
and  with  his  glasses  swept  the  long  road  marked  by 
a  line  of  tall,  fluttering  poplars  still  in  leaf.  He  saw 
an  irregular  procession  of  figures  drifting  up  the 
road;  he  noted  that  all  of  them  limped  painfully. 
Every  now  and  then  spurts  of  brilliant  flame  would 
suddenly  appear  from  nowhere  in  the  sky,  a  white 
ball  of  smoke  would  unfold  itself  into  a  scroll  shaped 
like  a  sculptured  dolphin,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
limping  figures  would  fall  in  the  road,  and  lie  where 
they  fell.  At  such  times,  or  rather  a  moment  before, 
some  of  the  figures  would  dart  for  the  shelter  of  the 
poplars  and  behind  the  trunks;  it  was  the  slower  ones 
who  fell.  In  the  distance,  about  half  a  mile  away, 
was  a  solitary  figure  moving  so  slowly  that  he 
hardly  seemed  to  move  at  all,  and  executing  as  he 
went  a  kind  of  clog  dance,  making  no  attempt  to 
dodge  the  shells  which  fell  around  him.  A  soldier 
passed;  his  right  arm  hung  uselessly  down,  and  the 
side  of  his  face  nearest  the  Captain  was  plastered 
with  coagulated  blood.  Stretcher-bearers  were  no- 
where visible.  This  surprised  the  Captain  the  less 
as  he  knew  that  every  battalion  detail  who  could 
carry  anything  was  carrying  on  with  a  rifle. 

As  the  morning  advanced,  the  omens  darkened. 
The  units  of  the  German  armies  in  front  of  the  sunken 
road  that  cut  the  road  to  Menin  at  right  angles 
through  Gheluvelt  were  thrusting  forward  like  the 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  23 

fingers  of  a  gigantic  outstretched  hand,  and  in  the 
narrow  spaces  between  each  pair  of  fingers  each 
British  battalion  was  being  slowly  squeezed  to  death. 
Such  was  the  picture  which  presented  itself  to  the 
Battery  Commander's  imagination  as  he  pieced 
together  the  fragments  of  intelligence  that  came  in 
at  frequent  intervals  and  were  passed  along,  some 
formally  in  a  bewildering  series  of  orders,  others 
informally  in  hurried  scraps  of  conversation  that 
passed  like  missiles  from  one  mounted  officer  to 
another  as  they  met,  saluted,  and  went  their  ways. 
That  the  staff  was  hard  put  to  it  was  obvious;  cooks 
left  their  field-kitchens,  A.  S.  C.  men  their  lorries  and 
were  hurried  up  to  the  front  with  rifles  to  take  their 
places  in  the  firing  line.  There  were  no  reserves  left. 
The  Captain  looked  at  the  four  guns  in  their  turf 
emplacements.  In  the  last  forty-eight  hours  he  had 
shortened  his  fuses  from  four  to  two  thousand  yards; 
every  H.Q.  message  calling  upon  him  to  engage  a  new 
target  had  indicated  an  objective  that  was  getting 
nearer  and  nearer.  The  guns  were  now  firing  over 
an  arc  of  ninety  degrees,  sweeping  the  German  front, 
and  the  range  was  little  more  than  a  mile.  The 
enemy  advance  was  creeping  on  like  an  oil-stain  and, 
if  the  reports  that  our  centre  was  being  driven  in 
were  true,  in  no  long  time  his  gunners  would  be  shot 
down  where  they  stood  and  the  guns  turned  on  our 
own  infantry  in  retreat.  He  ran  his  eye  rapidly  over 
the  vital  parts  of  the  guns,  and  as  it  rested  on  each 
part  he  thought  out  all  the  orders  he  might  have  to 
give  in  the  hour  of  extremity.  There  were  the 


24  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

sights,  their  brass-work  glinting  in  the  sun;  with  a 
blow  from  one  of  the  spades  strapped  behind  the 
shield  he  could  smash  their  delicate  mechanism. 
There  was  the  breech-loading  wedge,  fitting  like  the 
back  of  a  watch;  it  might  be  possible  to  dent  the 
edges.  At  the  back  of  it  was  the  striker  plug;  if  he 
unscrewed  that,  he  could  fire  a  rifle-bullet  into  the 
opening.  There  was  the  elevating-gear;  a  hand- 
spike through  its  diminutive  wheel  would  settle  that 
main-spring  of  the  gun  forever.  Or  he  could  take 
out  the  bolt  below  the  muzzle  which  secured  the 
piston-rod  and  fire  a  last  round  at  high  angle  in  the 
direction  of  the  enemy,  and  with  the  gun's  recoil  the 
shock  would  dismount  her.  But  to  lay  violent 
hands  on  the  guns  that  had  served  him  so  well  was  a 
counsel  of  despair,  and  for  the  moment  he  put  it 
from  him.  At  all  costs  he  must  save  them. 

As  he  meditated  on  these  things,  he  heard  a  loud 
droning  hum  overhead.  He  looked  up  between  the 
smooth  oval  leaves  of  a  beech-tree.  A  Taube 
aeroplane  was  flying  over  the  wood,  the  black  iron 
crosses  clearly  marked  on  its  diaphanous  wings,  and 
as  it  passed  on  it  dropped  a  white  fire-ball.  He 
knew  what  that  meant.  In  no  long  time  the  right 
section  of  his  battery  might  be  knocked  out  by  a 
direct  hit.  He  rode  back  to  the  gun  teams  a  few 
hundred  yards  away,  to  warn  them  to  prepare  to  go 
up  to  the  guns  at  a  moment's  notice.  He  found 
them  grouped  where  he  had  left  them  the  day  before, 
some  of  the  horses  off-saddled  and  the  drivers  mas- 
saging their  backs  with  the  flat  of  the  hand.  He 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  25 

ran  his  eye  rapidly  over  the  teams;  they  mustered 
the  same  strength  as  overnight.  If  they  sustained 
no  more  casualties  he  might  hope  to  get  his  guns 
away. 

"Get  ready  to  go  up  and  hook  in,"  he  said  to  the 
drivers. 

As  he  looked  at  the  sleek  and  well-groomed  teams, 
he  felt  thankful  that  he  had  never  let  pass  an  oppor- 
tunity of  impressing  on  his  men  the  duty  of  dis- 
mounting to  ease  the  girths,  of  looking  after  the 
horses'  feet,  and  all  the  little  arts  of  horsemastership. 
He  had  bidden  them  remember  the  horses  were  their 
best  friends,  and  that  some  day  they  might  have  to 
make  a  heavy  draft  on  that  friendship.  The  day 
had  come. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  rush  in  the  air  behind 
him,  and  a  loud  thud.  His  horse  reared  on  her 
haunches  and  then  came  down  on  her  fore  feet  with 
a  plunge  that  nearly  threw  him  out  of  the  saddle. 
He  could  feel  her  quivering  under  him  in  every 
nerve  as  he  reined  her  in  and  patted  her  neck.  He 
was  nearly  blinded,  but  as  the  coal-black  smoke 
cleared  before  his  eyes  he  saw  one  of  the  horses  on 
her  back  with  her  legs  lashing  the  air  in  agony  and 
her  smoking  entrails  exposed.  She  screamed  as  only 
a  "dumb"  animal  can  scream — a  long-drawn-out 
shriek  that  was  like  an  expiration. 

"Drag  him  out  of  the  way,  sergeant,  quick,  or 
she'll  lash  his  brains  out,"  he  shouted,  as  she  rolled 
toward  her  driver.  The  latter  lay  quite  still,  both 
legs  severed  below  the  knee  with  jets  of  blood  spurt- 


26  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

ing  from  the  severed  arteries.  Some  of  the  horses 
were  plunging,  and  one  was  bolting  madly  down 
the  road.  The  men,  dazed  by  the  shock,  were  hold- 
ing on  to  the  others. 

The  Captain  jumped  off  his  horse,  handed  the 
bridle  to  an  orderly,  and  pulled  his  revolver  out  of  its 
holster.  With  one  shot  he  put  the  mangled  beast  out 
of  her  futile  agonies.  He  ordered  the  rest  of  the  team 
to  be  withdrawn  a  few  hundred  yards  to  such  thicker 
cover  as  the  wood  afforded.  But  the  German  guns 
were  searching  that  wood  with  inexorable  persis- 
tency, shivering  the  chestnut  and  beech  and  pine 
into  splinters,  and  pollarding  the  poplars  as  with  a 
gigantic  axe.  The  four  teams  were  now  reduced 
to  twenty-four  horses,  and  each  gun  would  have 
to  be  brought  away  with  a  pair  short.  He  would 
think  himself  lucky  if  he  lost  no  more. 

He  galloped  back  to  Headquarters  for  instructions, 
and  as  he  rode  down  the  long,  straight  road,  bordered 
by  a  parallel  line  of  poplars  which  met  in  a  diminish- 
ing perspective,  he  passed  more  men  limping  along 
in  every  stage  of  decrepitude,  some  breathing  hard, 
their  faces  livid  and  their  uniforms  covered  with 
black  earth  from  head  to  foot  as  though  they  had 
been  dipped  in  pitch.  Wounded  men,  with  blood 
streaming  down  their  faces,  were  dodging  from  tree 
to  tree,  seeking  a  wholly  imaginary  shelter  from  the 
shells  which,  with  freakish  malignity,  fell  here  and 
there,  as  though  playing  a  diabolical  game  of  hide 
and  seek.  Three  men  wearing  their  equipment  and 
with  their  rifles  at  the  carry  paused  irresolutely  in 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  27 

the  road.  An  A.P.M.  advanced  from  behind  a  tree 
and  met  them  in  the  middle. 

"Hullo!    Who  are  you?     Where  are  you  going?" 

"We  was  the  2nd  Welsh,  sir,"  said  the  spokesman 

of  the  party.     "We's  all  that's  left  of  B  Company 

1 — we've  lost  touch  with  the  Borderers  on  our  left 

flank  and  the  line's  broken  in.     We  was  looking  for 

someone  to  post  us,  sir."  , 

The  A.P.M.  shepherded  them  together  at  the  side 
of  the  road  for  despatch  to  the  collecting  station. 

Other  stragglers  came  up.  They  were  from  the 
1st  Queen's,  and  they  brought  news  of  an  over- 
whelming enemy  attack  on  their  right  and  a  mur- 
derous enfilading  fire. 

The  A.P.M.  fell  them  in  with  the  rest  to  send  up  in 
support.  The  debris  of  other  units  came  straggling 
in,  Welsh  Fusiliers,  Queen's,  a  man  of  the  Black 
Watch,  and  it  struck  the  Captain  whimsically,  as  he 
reined  in  to  gather  information,  that  this  show  was 
strangely  like  a  cotillon  d' Albert  in  the  sergeants' 
mess  with  everybody  changing  partners.  Only  there 
was  no  "sitting  out." 

Looking  down  the  road  which  ran  straight  as  an 
arrow  between  the  poplars,  he  perceived  about  fifty 
yards  away  the  same  figure  which  had  arrested  his 
attention  half  an  hour  before.  How  it  had  escaped 
the  hail  of  shrapnel  was  a  mystery.  It  had  taken 
that  half  hour  to  cover  barely  half  a  mile.  He  saw 
now  that  it  was  a  Highlander  without  cap  or  equip- 
ment or  rifle,  a  short  man  with  the  thick  knees, 
powerful  deltoid  muscles,  thin  lips,  and  high  cheek- 


28  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

bones,  so  characteristic  of  his  kind.  There  was 
something  about  his  gait  which  was  at  once  ludicrous 
and  pathetic.  The  upper  part  of  his  body  was  rigid, 
but  the  lower  part  described  a  semi-circular  move- 
ment as  though  it  were  a  pivot,  and  his  agitated  legs 
pirouetted  on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  so  that  he  seemed 
to  hesitate  between  a  shuffle  and  a  dance.  But  it 
was  a  melancholy  dance  in  which  the  dancer's  legs 
seemed  to  move  of  themselves,  and  in  their  convul- 
sive movements  he  betrayed  neither  interest  nor 
volition.  His  arms  hung  at  his  sides  curiously  im- 
mobile, but  the  hands  twitched  ceaselessly,  turning 
on  his  wrists  as  on  a  hinge.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  also  twitched  and  his  eyelids  perpetually 
rose  and  fell. 

The  Brigadier,  who  had  spent  the  night  in  a  dug- 
out by  the  side  of  the  road,  caught  sight  of  him. 
All  the  morning  he  had  moved  to  and  fro  in  the 
open,  receiving  reports  and  issuing  orders,  while 
smoking  a  cigarette  with  unstudied  nonchalance. 
Now  and  again  he  found  time  to  speak  to  the  strag- 
glers, rounding  them  up  with  words  of  encourage- 
ment. It  is  not  often  that  a  general  plays  the  part 
of  "battle  police,"  but  the  General  knew  that  in  this 
vital  hour  every  man  was  worth  his  weight  in  gold — 
also  that  every  man  had  earned,  and  should  receive, 
a  general's  commendation.  He  took  the  man 
gently  by  the  arm.  "What  unit  are  you,  my  lad? 
The  2nd  Gordons?"  The  man  blinked  at  him  and 
made  a  resolute  effort  to  speak. 

"I  d-d-d-d-dinna  k-k-k-ken,  sir,"  he  said,  jerking 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  29 

out  the  syllables  as  though  he  were  jumping  a  terrific 
obstacle. 

"Who's  your  company  commander?" 

"I  d-d-d-dinna  k-k-k-ken,  sir." 

"Well,  what's  your  name,  my  lad?" 

"I  c-c-c-canna "  And  tears  came  into  his 

eyes. 

The  General  led  him  gently  to  the  side  of  the  road, 
and  made  him  sit  down.  He  sat  there,  and  a  man 
of  the  2nd  Welsh  handed  him  a  "woodbine."  He 
took  it  and  put  it  uncertainly  between  his  lips. 
Then  he  struck  a  match.  He  tried  to  apply  it  to  the 
cigarette,  but  the  match  danced  in  his  hand  like  a 
will-o'-the-wisp  and  went  out.  He  struck  another, 
but  the  distance  between  the  match  and  the  cigarette 
was  insurmountable,  and  he  dropped  it. 

"Shell  shock.  I've  seen  cases  like  it  before,"  said 
the  General  laconically.  "C  Company  of  the  Gor- 
dons had  a  devil  of  a  time  on  Thursday,  and  he's  one 
of  the  relics  of  it."  And  with  a  word  to  the  A.P.M. 
to  get  the  stricken  man  to  the  chateau  in  the  wood 
he  turned  to  his  brigade-major.  The  Captain 
looked  after  the  man,  following  his  quivering  move- 
ments with  a  strange  fascination.  He  had  seen  his 
gunners  blown  to  pieces  by  his  side,  and  the  horses 
of  his  teams  frightfully  mangled,  but  to  this  day 
the  remembrance  of  that  convulsive  figure  remains 
with  him  as  a  symbol  of  the  hell  in  which  the  in- 
fantry fought  and  died. 

"He  wass  blown  up,"  said  a  survivor  of  the  1st 
Welsh  Fusiliers,  whose  face  was  pitted  with  the  blue 


30  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

marks  that  betray  the  collier.  "By  a  coal-box. 
My  butty  wass  buried  by  one,  and  all  his  section. 
I  wass  dig  him  out,  but  he  wass  dead.  And  his  face 
wass  swell  up  like  the  fire-damp.  There's  swelled 
up  it  wass ! " 

"Aye,"  said  a  man  of  the  ist  Queen's,  as  though 
dismissing  a  platitude.  "I  tell  you  what,  mate, 
this  isn't  war." 

"Ho!  I  don't  think,"  said  his  neighbour.  "What 
is  it,  then?  We've  been  outflanked  and  enfiladed 
on  both  sides;  outflanked  we  have.  All  our  officers 
is  gone,  and  there  aren't  seventy  of  us  have  got 
back.  If  that  ain't  war,  what  is  it?" 

"It's  b—    -  murder,"  said  the  other. 

No  one  seemed  inclined  to  dispute  this  proposition. 
The  little  group  was  not  talkative.  The  nervous 
jocularity  which  precedes  action,  the  almost  sub- 
conscious profanity  which  carries  men  through  it, 
the  riotous  gaiety  which  follows  after  it — all  these 
were  absent.  They  were  worn  out  with  want  of 
sleep,  parched  with  thirst,  stunned  with  concussion, 
and  their  speech  was  thick  and  slow  like  that  of  a 
drunken  man.  But  the  Welshman,  with  the  volu- 
bility of  his  race,  talked  on,  no  one  heeding  him. 

"But  we  wass  give  Fritz  hell,  boys.  They  come 
on  like  a  football  crowd — a  bloke  couldn't  miss  them, 
even  if  he  wass  only  just  off  the  square.  And  they 
fire  from  the  hip!  But  Duw  anwyl!  they're  eight  to 
one  in  machine-guns,  and  their  coal-boxes  is  some- 
thing cruel.  I  heard  their  chaps  singing  last  night 
— singing  splendid,  look  you — like  the  Rhondda  Male 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  31 

Voice  Choir  it  was.  But  we  give  them  a  funeral 
to-day,  yes,  indeed." 

"Fall  in,"  said  an  N.C.O.  whom  the  A.P.M.  had 
impounded.  "Fr-r-om  the  left,  number!"  They 
numbered  off  from  one  to  twenty.  "Four  paces  to 
the  right  ex-tend!  One  to  ten  right  half  section. 
Eleven  to  twenty  left  half  section!  Right  turn. 
Sections  right  wheel.  Quick  march!"  And  he 
marched  them  off  to  a  farm  in  the  wood.  The 
Captain  looked  after  them  for  a  moment.  They  were 
going  back  into  the  hell  from  which  they  came,  and 
they  knew  it.  But  they  betrayed  no  more  con- 
sciousness of  this  than  if  they  had  been  marching 
back  into  billets.  The  Captain  remembered  that  the 
Welsh  Fusiliers  had  Nee  aspera  terrent  for  their 
motto  and  that  "Albuera"  was  blazoned  on  their 
colours.  "It's  the  same  breed,"  he  said  to  himself 
reflectively.  While  he  waited,  the  Brigade-Major 
returned  from  the  telephone  with  his  instructions 
from  Divisional  H.Q.  He  was  to  withdraw  both 

sections  of  his  battery  to  D without  delay. 

He  galloped  back,  followed  by  the  trumpeter,  and 
putting  his  horse  at  the  ditch,  leaped  it  and  tore  up 
through  a  clearing.  A  branch  overhead  whipped 
his  cap  off  and  just  shaved  his  head  as  he  ducked; 
he  dashed  on.  He  drew  rein  by  the  teams  and  was 
relieved  to  find  there  had  been  no  more  casualties. 

"We  are  going  to  retire,"  he  said,  curtly.  "Take 
the  teams  up  at  once  and  hook  in."  And  leaving  the 
orderly  to  bring  them  up,  he  rode  on  to  the  guns  and 
gave  his  orders  to  the  section  commanders.  One 


32  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

gun  was  in  action,  firing  shrapnel  at  short  range; 
the  others  were  already  being  dug  out,  in  readiness 
for  limbering  up.  He  stepped  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  wood  where  it  broke  away  into  ploughed  land 
and  looked  over  his  left  shoulder  in  the  direction 
of  the  northwest.  A  battalion  was  coming  up  in 
gun  "groups,"  moving  steadily  forward  under  a  hail 
of  shrapnel  and  thinning  as  it  went.  It  was  obvious 
that  they  were  going  to  hurl  themselves  into  the 
breach.  It  was  the  last  throw  of  the  die  and  the 
fate  of  Europe  hung  upon  it.  He  did  not  know  at 
the  time  the  name  of  the  unit;  he  was  to  learn  after- 
ward that  it  was  the  2nd  Worcesters.  He  left  the 
section  commander  in  charge  of  his  guns,  and  rode 
back  along  the  lane  to  the  cross-roads.  He  found 
a  field  battery  commander  looking  down  the  road 
with  his  glasses,  and  right  in  the  centre  of  it  an 
eighteen  pounder  was  in  position,  with  the  gun- 
layer  on  the  left  of  the  gun,  the  loader  behind  her, 
and  her  nonchalant  subaltern  smoking  a  cigarette 
under  the  enemy's  shrapnel.  It  seemed  a  miracle 
that  he  was  not  hit,  and  the  Captain  stopped  in  mild 
astonishment  to  ask  the  battery  commander  what 
the  gun  was  doing  there. 

"Doing?"  said  the  latter  laconically.  "Firing. 
We've  got  word  that  the  Germans  have  driven  in  the 
Welsh  and  are  coming  down  that  road  in  mass 
formation.  Well,  we're  ready  for  them.  That's 
all.  What  a  target,  eh?"  And  putting  his  glasses 
back  in  their  case,  he  rubbed  his  hands  as  though 
he  were  having  the  time  of  his  life.  Which  he  was. 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  33 

The  Captain  crossed  the  road  and  turned  down  a 
lane,  and  in  a  few  minutes  had  returned  to  his  bat- 
tery. The  guns  were  dug  out,  the  teams  brought  up 
to  the  left  of  the  carriages,  the  rings  were  slipped  on 
the  poles,  and  the  gunners  fastened  the  wheel- 
traces. 

Shells  were  crashing  through  the  wood,  bursting 
all  round  the  battery,  but  the  drivers  sat  motionless 
on  their  horses. 

"Walk !     March ! "  said  the  battery  commander. 

The  drivers  eased  the  reins  and  closing  their  legs 
each  to  his  riding  horse,  they  rested  their  whips 
across  the  neck  of  each  off  horse.  There  was  a 
"hwit!  hwit!"  overhead  and  a  shower  of  broken 
leaves  and  crackling  twigs.  The  rattle  of  musketry 
was  strangely  near  and  there  seemed  to  be  voices 
in  the  wood.  There  was  another  crack  and  No.  I 
leader  of  the  team  fell  like  a  stone,  bringing  her  driver 
down  with  her.  He  was  up  in  an  instant  and  stoop- 
ing over  the  dead  horse  he  unhooked  the  "quick 
release"  and  mounted  the  off  horse.  The  Captain 
looked  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  eased  the  reins 
of  his  horse.  At  that  moment  he  sighted  some- 
thing over  the  top  of  the  hedge,  and  he  rose  in  his 
stirrups.  He  saw  at  a  glance  a  number  of  spiked 
helmets  and  heard  the  push  of  bodies  through  the 
bracken. 

"Gallop!"  he  shouted.  And  then  the  blow  fell. 
Something  seemed  to  snap  in  his  head  and  he  felt 
himself  soaring  up  and  up  into  space,  as  though 
propelled  by  some  tremendous  force. 


34  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Then  the  pace  gradually  slackened,  the  impene- 
trable blackness  was  stabbed  with  points  of  light, 
he  saw  the  face  of  one  he  loved,  and  he  wondered 
whether  he  was  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Objects 
suddenly  became  distinct,  trees  took  shape  before  his 
eyes,  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  body,  and  tried 
to  move.  But  he  seemed  to  be  held  in  a  vise.  In 
his  agony  he  dug  his  heels  into  the  soil,  and  he  saw 
that  his  right  arm  was  gone.  A  face  was  bending 
over  him.  It  was  the  shoeing-smith. 

"Are  you  alive,  sir?" 

He  turned  his  head.  "Am  I  alive?"  he  asked 
himself.  "I — I  think  so,"  he  gasped.  "But  my 
number's  up.  Leave  me!" 

Someone  got  a  stretcher  and  they  took  him 
through  the  undergrowth  to  the  cross-roads.  There 
a  doctor  injected  morphia  into  his  arm  and  they  took 
him  to  the  dressing-station  at  Hooge.  He  was  in 
the  trance  of  morphia,  but  could  hear  the  doctors, 
apparently  a  long  way  off,  saying  that  he  was  a  bad 
case.  At  Ypres  they  put  him  under  chloroform, 
and  he  knew  no  more  till  he  woke  at  Boulogne. 

His  case  was  grave.  He  had  lost  a  great  deal  of 
blood,  and  his  wounds  were  septic.  Rest,  mental 
as  well  as  physical,  was  vital;  but  he  could  not  rest. 
The  exhortations  of  the  doctor  were  lost  upon  him: 
he  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind.  He  was 
allowed  no  newspapers  on  the  ground  that  they 
might  excite  him,  which  was  a  mistake.  A  box  of 
cigarettes  by  his  bedside  he  left  untouched.  At 
length  he  called  the  doctor  to  him. 


THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  35 

"Look  here,  doctor,  will  you  do  me  a  favour? 
Well,  I  want  you  to  find  out  what's  become  of  my 
battery.  Did  they  get  the  guns  away?  I  want  to 
know;  I  want  an  official  answer." 

The  doctor  promised  to  do  what  he  could.  The 
Divisional  H.Q.,  who  had  their  hands  full,  were 
somewhat  annoyed  when  they  got  a  telephone 
message  from  a  Base  Hospital,  asking  for  informa- 
tion about  a  battery.  But  they  gave  it. 

The  doctor  returned. 

"Your  battery's  all  right.  All  your  guns  are  in 
action  at  Z " 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  said  the  Captain,  and  they 
lit  his  first  cigarette. 

From  that  hour  he  began  to  mend.  Three  years 
have  passed;  the  Captain  still  lives,  but  he  is  a 
cripple  for  life.  His  fighting  days  are  done;  he  will 
never  give  the  word  "Action  Front!"  again.  The 
battery  itself  is  but  a  memory;  near  the  grave  of  the 
sergeant-major  lie  a  subaltern,  gunners,  drivers,  and 
the  horses  they  loved  so  wisely  and  so  well.  Their 
graves  have  long  ago  been  pounded  into  dust  by 
guns  of  whose  calibre  they  never  dreamed;  old  things 
are  passed  away  and  all  things  have  become  new; 
the  very  wood  in  which  they  fell  has  long  since  dis- 
appeared from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  But  these 
mortals  in  dying  put  on  immortality,  being  dead, 
they  live,  being  silent,  they  speak;  and,  leaving 
behind  them  an  imperishable  memory,  they  need 
no  memorial 


Ill 

THE  SOWER  OF  TARES 

EIGHT  points  starboard!"  called  the  Lieuten- 
ant from  the  bridge. 
"Eight  points  starboard,  sir,"  chanted  the 
skipper   in   antiphon   from  the  wheel-house   as   he 
glanced  at  the  compass  overhead. 

As  our  drifter  changed  her  course,  making  a  right 
turn,  a  pennant  fluttered  up  the  flag-staff  at  a  sig- 
nalling station  on  our  port  bow,  paused  interroga- 
tively at  the  truck,  descended,  and  then  ran  up  to  the 
truck  again.  It  was  the  "Pass  friend,  all's  well"  of 
those  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  The  ex- 
change of  salutations  was  repeated  at  the  guardship 
as  we  cleared  the  harbour  mouth  and  stood  out  to 
sea.  The  sun  glinted  on  the  brasswork  of  the  six- 
pounder  in  our  bows,  the  sea  was  smooth,  and  the 
telegraph  was  set  at  full  speed  ahead.  Our  mizzen 
sail  was  furled  and  our  masts  bare,  save  for  the 
spidery  web  of  our  "wireless";  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  except  the  faint  throb  of  the  triple-expansion 
reciprocating  engines  in  the  bowels  of  the  ship.  Our 
craft  had  an  ingenuous  air,  and  but  for  one  or  two 
unobtrusive  things  might  have  been  merely  putting 
to  sea  for  a  quiet  trawl  among  the  herrings  as  she 
did  in  the  old  days  before  my  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

36 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  37 

requisitioned  her  and  made  her  stout,  smooth-faced 
skipper  with  the  puckered  eyes  a  warrant  officer  in 
the  R.N.V.R.  The  flaws  in  the  illusion  were  the 
presence  of  the  six-pounder  forward,  certain  ex- 
tremely lethal  cases  under  the  bulwarks  aft,  a  wireless 
operator  secreted  in  his  dark  room  down  below,  and 
the  fact  that  we  all  wore  life-belts.  And  in  the 
wheel-house  was  a  small  armoury  of  rifles. 

Still,  it  seemed  extremely  like  a  pleasure  trip,  and 
I  settled  myself  down  on  the  bridge  behind  the 
"dodger"  with  a  leisurely  conviction  that  I  had 
chosen  the  quietest  way  I  could  of  spending  a  few 
days'  leave.  The  crew  moved  softly  about  the  deck 
stowing  away  gear;  one  of  them  peeled  potatoes  into 
a  bucket  outside  the  galley,  and  my  friend  the 
Lieutenant  went  below  to  the  chart-house  to  read 
some  cryptic  naval  messages  and  glance  at  the 
Admiralty  "monthly  orders."  The  Admiralty  can 
give  points  to  the  War  Office  in  the  matter  of  periodi- 
cal literature;  you  would  never  look  for  a  plot  in  an 
Army  Council  Instruction,  but  in  the  Admiralty 
Orders  every  order  "tells  a  story."  But  if  you  ask 
a  naval-patrol  man  on  shore  leave,  he  will  answer 
you  like  the  needy  knife-grinder:  "'Story?'  God 
bless  you,  sir,  I've  none  to  tell."  The  Admiralty 
does  not  love  story-tellers.  This  is  not  a  story. 

"Something  ahead  on  the  port  bow,  sir,"  shouted 
the  look-out  man  forward. 

The  Lieutenant,  whose  faculty  of  hearing,  like  his 
faculty  of  vision,  seems  to  be  abnormally  developed, 
came  rushing  out  of  the  chart-house,  scaled  the 


38  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

bridge  ladder  like  a  cat,  and  in  two  seconds  was  by 
my  side.  He  pulled  a  pair  of  binoculars  out  of  a 
pocket  in  the  "dodger"  and  looked  through  them  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  ran  to  the  telegraph  and  put  her 
at  "slow."  At  the  same  moment  one  of  the  crew, 
without  waiting  for  orders,  handed  him  a  rifle  from 
the  wheel-house.  No  one  spoke  a  word. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  a  point  or  two  off 
our  course,  I  saw  a  dark  round  object  bobbing  up  and 
down  like  a  cork. 

The  Lieutenant  got  a  "bead"  on  it,  and  I  watched 
him  intently.  The  next  moment  he  lowered  his  rifle 
and  laughed. 

"It's  only  a  ship's  tub,"  he  said.  "Like  to  have  a 
shot  at  her?"  he  added  as  he  pumped  two  cartridges 
at  the  vagabond.  One  shot  fell  just  short,  the  other 
just  over.  I  saw  the  skipper's  eye  on  me  as  the 
Lieutenant  handed  me  the  rifle,  and  feeling  the  repu- 
tation of  the  junior  service  was  at  stake  I  did  not  wel- 
come the  invitation.  But  luck  was  with  me. 

"A  bull's  eye,"  said  the  Lieutenant  approvingly. 
My  reputation  was  saved. 

"It  might  have  been  a  floating  mine,"  the  Lieuten- 
ant explained.  "One  never  knows." 

"So  that's  why  we're  wearing  these  beastly  cork 
jackets,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  began  to  understand  the 
Admiralty  instruction  that  you  must  never  stop  to 
pick  anything  up.  For,  in  these  days,  things  are  not 
what  they  seem,  and  a  tub,  a  life-buoy,  a  sleeper,  an 
upturned  boat,  all  the  ingenuous  flotsam  and  jetsam 
of  the  sea  may  be — and  often  are — merely  a  trap 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  39 

for  the  unwary.  The  Admiralty  does  not  encourage 
souvenir-hunting.  We  only  collect  two  things — 
mines  and  submarines. 

We  were  out  on  an  uncharted  sea.  So  long  as  we 
had  kept  in  the  channel  swept  by  the  mine-sweepers 
in  the  gray  dawn  our  charts  were  useful;  once  outside 
it,  those  charts  were  about  as  helpful  to  us  as  one 
of  Taride's  maps  would  be  to  a  divisional  staff  at 
the  front.  Trenches,  saps,  dumps,  listening-posts, 
"strong  points,"  have  altered  the  geography  of  the 
front;  floating  and  anchored  mines  have  confused 
the  hydrography  of  the  Channel.  The  soundings  on 
our  charts  were  more  delusive  than  the  roads  and 
water-courses  on  a  French  ordnance-map  of  the 
Somme.  But  at  the  front  the  R.E.  can,  and  do, 
make  new  maps  for  old,  whereas  we  had  to  grope  in 
the  dark,  making  the  best  use  we  could  of  our  senses. 
The  earth  is  solid,  stable,  and  open  to  aerial  recon- 
naissance and  survey;  the  sea  is  forever  shifting  and 
inscrutable.  We  had  our  secret  staff  map  of  the  sea, 
and  very  useful  it  is  for  wireless  work,  but  it  tells  us 
nothing  of  the  tares  sown  in  the  deep,  and  the  sound- 
ings on  our  charts  reveal  to  us  none  of  the  shoal  water 
of  the  mine-fields.  Once  we  leave  the  fairway  kept 
clear  for  the  merchantmen,  and  make  for  our  line  of 
traffic  patrols  on  point  duty,  we  are  like  a  recon- 
noitring party  that  goes  "over  the  top"  at  night. 
We  are  out  on  the  No  Man's  Land  of  the  sea. 
;  We  were  leaving  the  fairway  now.  We  had 
altered  our  course  a  few  points  to  the  south,  steaming 
in  "line  ahead"  formation,  a  motor  launch  following 


40  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

us,  then  another  drifter,  each  keeping  a  distance  of 
about  half  a  mile  apart.  If  we  sighted  a  periscope 
to  port  or  starboard  we  could  suddenly  put  the  helm 
over  and  bear  down  on  it.  Steering  thus  in  a  bad 
light,  our  drifter  had  once  rammed  the  mast-truck 
of  a  sunken  ship  in  mistake  for  a  periscope  and 
scraped  her  bottom  badly,  for  she  never  misses  a 
sporting  chance.  But  our  distance  was  also  a  de- 
fence formation.  One  does  not  march  in  column  of 
fours  when  the  enemy  batteries  have  got  the  range. 
And  when  you  are  cruising  over  No  Man's  Land  of 
the  sea  you  must  proceed  on  the  assumption  that  at 
any  moment  you  will  strike  a  mine,  in  which  case  it 
is  just  as  well  that  Number  One  should  go  to  the 
bottom  on  her  own.  We  were  Number  One. 

But  the  naval  patrol  takes  these  things  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Down  in  the  bowels  of  the  ship  in  the 
crew's  quarters,  reached  by  a  perpendicular  iron  lad- 
der opening  at  a  hatchway  about  the  size  of  a  pin- 
cushion, two  members  of  the  crew  slept  like  dormice  in 
a  blissful  "fug."  Next  door,  the  wireless  operator, 
with  the  receiver  to  his  ear,  was  immured  in  his 
sound-proof  box,  calling  spirits  from  over  the  vasty 
deep.  Below  the  engine-room  hatch  the  engineer, 
with  his  eye  on  his  pressure  gauges,  was  dreamily 
making  apple  dumplings  out  of  cotton  waste.  If  we 
scraped  a  mine  they  would  all  be  drowned  like  rats  in 
a  hole — a  mine  always  gets  you  amidships.  The 
skipper  would  probably  go  through  the  roof  of  the 
wheel-house,  and  the  Lieutenant  beside  me  on  the 
bridge  would  execute  a  series  of  graceful  gambols  in 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  41 

the  air  like  a  "flying  pig"  from  a  trench  mortar.  This 
had  happened  to  one  of  the  drifters  in  that  patrol  a 
week  before;  they  picked  up  one  man,  who  will  never 
go  to  sea  again,  and  the  others  are  all  "gone  west." 

"They  were  good  men — some  of  the  best,"  said  the 
Lieutenant. 

As  I  looked  at  the  cloudless  horizon  and  the  smooth 
sea  sparkling  in  the  sun  I  reflected  on  the  treachery  of 
the  illusion,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  of  all  the  risks 
of  active  service,  those  endured  by  the  "Auxiliaries" 
of  the  naval  patrol  were  the  most  unpleasant.  Per- 
sonally, I  prefer  the  trenches.  But  the  Lieutenant 
would  have  none  of  it.  He  said — and  obviously 
thought — that  his  was  a  "cushy"  place  in  comparison. 
I  had  heard  a  submarine  commander  to  the  same 
effect.  Also  my  pilot  in  a  Maurice-Farman.  It's 
a  curious  fact  that  every  arm  of  both  services  thinks 
the  other  arms  take  nearly  all  the  risks.  Which  is 
as  it  should  be. 

The  Lieutenant  was  an  imperturbably  cheerful 
person.  A  perpetual  smile  dimpled  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  and  completed  the  illusion  of  precocious  boy- 
hood produced  by  his  diminutive  stature,  his  frank, 
ingenuous  countenance,  laughing  blue  eyes,  and  kit- 
tenish agility.  His  face  was  tanned  to  the  colour 
of  newly-dressed  leather,  but  when  he  removed  his 
cap  the  tan  was  seen  to  terminate  suddenly  in  a  sharp 
horizontal  line  on  his  forehead,  above  which  the  infan- 
tile pink  and  white  of  his  brow  presented  a  contrast 
so  startling  as  to  suggest  that  he  wore  the  false  scalp  of 
a  low  comedian.  But  the  palms  of  his  hands  were  as 


42  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

hard  as  a  cobbler's,  and  his  muscles  like  tempered 
steel.  There  were  many  deficiencies  in  his  kit,  and, 
seeing  me  glance  at  the  toes  of  his  feet  which  peeped 
out  of  his  sea-boots,  he  gravely  explained  that  as  the 
water  came  in  at  the  top,  the  holes  at  the  toe  were 
useful  to  let  it  out  at  the  bottom!  He  was  the  only 
commissioned  officer  on  board,  and  his  repertoire 
was  extensive — he  was  commander,  gunnery  lieuten- 
ant, signalling  officer,  and  half  a  dozen  other  things 
besides,  and  he  carried  in  his  head  all  the  secrets,  which 
are  many  and  complicated,  of  the  Admiralty  codes 
and  instructions.  I  suppose  he  sometimes  slept 
(though  I  never  once  saw  him  asleep),  for  he  showed 
me  his  sleeping  cabin  forward,  which  I  shared,  and  it 
did  not  escape  me  that  the  stove  chimney  was  red 
with  the  rust  of  sea  water  to  the  height  of  about  five 
feet — which  opened  my  eyes  to  the  luxury  of  his  exist- 
ence in  the  winter  gales.  At  one  time,  early  in  the 
war,  he  conducted  a  series  of  brilliant  tactical  opera- 
tions against  a  number  of  Medical  Boards  who  shared 
a  belief,  amounting  to  an  infatuation,  that  a  man  who, 
as  the  result  of  an  accident  in  childhood,  could  not 
march  a  mile  without  falling  out  and  suffered  excruciat- 
ing agonies  at  regular  intervals  of  about  a  week, 
was  "unfit  for  general  service."  They  know  better 
now. 

Our  approach  to  our  immediate  objective  was  the 
occasion  of  a  spirited  display  by  the  Lieutenant  of  his 
gifts  as  a  trapeze  artist.  We  had  run  up  a  hoist  of 
signals  as  we  neared  the  line  of  patrols,  and  the  engines 
being  put  at  half  speed,  the  Lieutenant  took  two 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  43 

signalling  flags  in  his  hands  like  a  pair  of  Indian  clubs 
and  perched  himself  upon  the  rail  of  the  bridge.  He 
twined  his  calves  with  simian-like  flexibility  round  the 
uprights,  his  feet  suddenly  became  prehensile  as  he 
anchored  them  to  the  middle  rail,  and,  with  his  lower 
limbs  thus  moored,  he  proceeded  to  hurl  his  body 
about  in  space.  His  arms  described  an  arc  of  three- 
quarters  of  a  circle  with  dazzling  rapidity  as  he  exe- 
cuted a  series  of  alphabetic  jerks  in  the  medium  of 
semaphore  varied  by  almost  imperceptible  commas 
and  full  stops.  Then  he  paused  to  take  breath. 

An  ecstatic  figure  on  the  upper  rail  of  the  bridge  of 
the  other  drifter  answered  with  similar  gesticulations, 
to  which  the  Lieutenant  feelingly  articulated  in  reply. 

The  interlocutory  proceedings  of  these  knock-about 
comedians  concluded  with  an  inquiry  from  the  patrol 
boat,  which  had  been  on  point  duty  in  mid-channel  for 
fourteen  days,  as  to  the  success  of  a  wedding  ashore, 
at  which  the  Lieutenant  of  our  drifter  had  assisted  as 
best  man. 

"A.  i.  THE  BEST  MAN  LOOKED  LOVELY,"  signalled 
the  Lieutenant,  and  we  descended  to  the  chart-room 
for  a  midday  dinner. 

He  apologized  for  the  menu,  which  was  simple 
enough.  I  discovered  afterward  that  he  made  it  a 
point  of  honour  to  share  the  same  rations  as  the  crew. 
The  table  appointments  were  also  exiguous,  and  there 
seemed  a  shortage  of  plates. 

"They're  'gone  West,'  sir,"  said  the  orderly  with  a 
faint  smile.  "That  depth-charge  did  them  in." 

I  raised  my  eyebrows  interrogatively.     And  the 


44  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Lieutenant,  by  way  of  explanation,  told  a  tale.  It 
cannot  be  told  here,  but  there  is  a  certain  U-boat 
which  will  never  make  a  "land-fall"  in  German  waters 
again.  The  Admiralty,  which  is  hard  to  convince, 
paid  the  blood-money  over  to  the  Lieutenant  a  few 
weeks  ago  and  the  patrol  shared  it  out,  according  to 
their  ratings,  like  a  herring  catch.  And  there  was  a 
"bump  supper"  at  the  Naval  Base.  But  the  auxili- 
aries hide  their  light  under  a  bushel,  and  the  lady 
visitors  at  a  fashionable  watering-place  are  still  won- 
dering querulously  why  the  sea  is  so  lustrously  wet — 
they  say  their  bathing-dresses  won't  dry  and  that  they 
smell  strangely  of  oil. 

So  one  more  of  the  Thugs  of  the  sea  had  been  put 
out  of  the  way,  and  her  crew  lie  fathoms  deepen  the 
Channel  awaiting  the  day  when  the  sea  gives  up  its 
dead. 

"Dirty  devils  I  call  them,  sir,"  said  the  skipper 
quietly,  smoking  his  pipe  with  his  hands  thrust  into 
his  pockets  and  a  reef  in  his  jumper  as  we  did  a  dog 
watch  together.  He  was  a  large  stalwart  man,  speak- 
ing the  East  Anglian  dialect,  in  which  an  "a"  fre- 
quently does  duty  for  an  "e"  and  a  "w"  for  a  "u." 
Apart  from  these  phonetic  peculiarities  his  speech  was 
good  King's  English,  and  I  noticed  that  he  used  none 
of  that  truculent  pidgin  English  which  by  a  curious 
literary  convention  so  many  longshoremen  of  letters 
put  into  the  mouth  of  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships.  Your  novelist,  dealing  in  words,  is  so  apt  to 
mistake  strong  language  for  strength  of  mind. 

The  skipper  paused  and  refilled  his  pipe,  pursuing 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  45 

some  obscure   strain   of  thought.    Then   he   found 
speech. 

"Did  you  hear  tell  of  the  Belgian  Prince,  sir?' 
Aye,  everybody  has.  There's  never  a  dog  watch  kept 
in  any  ship  afloat  in  which  that  story  isn't  told.  I've 
heard  as  men  tell  it  in  every  boarding-house  in  Lime- 
house  and  'Frisco  and  Sydney  and  Shanghai.  It's 
gone  round  the  Horn,  and  it's  gone  east  of  Suez. 
Why,  there's  sailor-men  as  doan't  know  enough  to  read 
their  own  discharge-note  as  have  got  that  story  by 
heart  like  a  'chantey.'  They'll  never  forget  it  till  the 
Day  of  Judgment.  I'm  thinking  as  sailor-men  as  are 
not  yet  born  will  be  telling  that  tale  round  the  galley 
fire  at  night  long  after  your  an'  my  watch  is  up.  ..." 

He  paused  and  gazed  out  over  a  "lipper"  sea.  I 
noticed  he  had  forgotten  to  light  his  pipe.  "I  knew 
a  skipper  as  had  once  done  the  dirty  at  sea.  No  one 
knew  the  rights  of  it  exactly,  and  the  'Old  Man* 
never  lost  his  'ticket,'  but  the  story  I  heard  tell  was 
that  he'd  been  'spoken'  by  a  ship  flying  signals  of 
distress,  and  instead  of  putting  down  his  helium  to 
stand  by,  he'd  kept  on  his  course  and  left  her  to  sink 
with  all  hands.  And  from  that  day  he  never  entered  a 
'pub'  parlour  but  all  the  skippers  'ud  get  up  and  lave 
their  glass  untouched  and  walk  out.  If  they  saw  him 
making  down  street  on  their  port  bow  they'd  port 
their  helium  so  as  to  give  him  a  wide  berth.  Never 
a  one  as  ever  passed  the  time  of  day  with  him  or  said 
'what's  yours?'  And  it  grew  so  that  not  a  sailor- 
man  would  sign  on  if  he  knew  as  he  was  to  sail  with 
that  skipper;  some  of  them  'ud  desart  at  first  port  they 


46  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

•   '    '-"V 

made  wi'out  waiting  to  be  paid  off.  They  got  the  idea 
as  he  brought  bad  luck,  like  a  Russian  Finn.  And  if 
you  once  get  a  notion  like  that  in  a  sailor-man's  head, 
he'll  never  get  it  out.  Fve  heard  tell  of  that  skipper 
hauling  up  to  'speak*  a  ship,  and  when  his  hoist  had 
told  the  name  of  his  craft  t'other  ship  wouldn't  so 
much  as  dip  her  ens'n  to  wish  him  'God  speed.'  And 
if  ye're  an  outcast  at  sea,  God  help  ye;  for  the  sea's  a 
lonesome  place.  It  so  preyed  on  the  mind  of  him  that 
he  began  to  see  ships  flying  signals  of  distress  a-beck- 
oning  of  him,  ships  as  wasn't  there — till  one  night  he 
put  her  straight  on  a  reef  and  then  went  over  her 
bows.  .  .  .  You  see,  sir,  sailor-men  have  got 
their  share  of  original  sin,  I'm  no  saying  they  haven't, 
but  there's  one  sin  no  sailor  dare  commit,  for  it's  the 
sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost — and  that's  leaving  other 
sailor-men  to  perish.  The  sea's  shifty  enough  and 
tarrible  enough  and  treacherous  enough  as  'tis  without 

men  being "  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  hanging  about  tack  and  tack  instead  of 
trimming  my  yards  for  a  straight  run,  but  the  course 
I'm  steering  is  this:  the  outlawry  of  that  skipper 
warn't  nothing  to  the  outlawry  as  awaits  the  German 
when  he  once  more  weighs  anchor  and  puts  to  sea." 

And  he  lit  his  pipe.  It  seemed  to  me  that  his  hand 
shook  slightly. 

The  sun  was  sinking  slowly  in  the  west,  his  light 
lingering  on  the  headlands;  in  the  east  the  sky  was  a 
deep  blue  flushed  with  rose-pink,  but  nearer  the  heart 
of  the  sun  these  delicate  tints  gave  place  to  fleeces  of 
ochre,  and  these  in  turn  to  flames  of  molten  gold. 


THE 'SOWER  OF  TARES  47 

The  next  moment  the  sun  seemed  to  cease  breathing 
upon  the  sky,  all  the  colours  swooned  and  went  slowly 
out,  and  even  the  golden  aureole  changed  to  a  dull 
vermilion.  The  rocks  became  silhouettes,  the  clouds 
turned  black,  and  the  shoals  of  rose-shadow  on  the 
surface  of  the  sea  sank  out  of  sight  and  gave  place  to  a 
purple  bloom.  As  the  sun  disappeared  below  the 
horizon  a  lingering  ray  tinged  the  darkling  clouds 
with  silver  surge. 

With  the  last  expiration  of  the  sun  the  wine-dark 
sea  changed  to  a  leaden  hue,  and  one  by  one  stars 
twinkled  overhead — the  crescent  of  the  Corona  Bore- 
alis  to  port,  the  Pleiades  to  starboard,  and  over  the 
truck  of  our  foremast  the  constellation  of  the  Great 
Bear.  The  air  grew  very  cold.  A  great  silence  en- 
compassed us,  broken  only  by  the  lapping  of  the  water 
against  the  ship's  sides.  Round  about  us  was  a  waste 
of  waters  stretching  away  into  impenetrable  darkness. 
All  the  friendly  lights  that  guide  the  homing  ships  in 
time  of  peace  were  put  out.  More  than  once  before 
this  our  drifter,  smothered  in  a  fog  with  no  warning 
light  or  siren  to  guide  her,  and  unable  to  take  a  cross 
bearing,  had  found  herself  casting  the  lead  in  thirty- 
five  fathoms  right  under  the  lee  of  a  towering  cliff  with 
only  just  time  to  put  her  engines  full  speed  astern. 
Nothing  lightened  our  darkness  except  a  great  beacon 
which,  elusive  as  lightning,  winked  at  intervals  across 
the  sea,  revealing  for  a  second  the  dark  silhouette  of  the 
motor  launch  as  she  drifted  about  a  mile' away.  Our 
isolation  was  as  complete  as  that  of  a  listening-post. 
We  were  out  in  the  No  Man's  Land  of  the  sea. 


48  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"The  letter  is "said  the  Lieutenant  softly  to  one 

of  the  watch  as  he  passed  along  the  deck.  It  was  our 
secret  signal  in  the  event  of  our  bumping  up  against  a 
destroyer  seeking  to  speak  with  her  adversary  in  the 
gate.  If  our  watch  forgot  it  our  number  would  be  up. 
We  showed  no  lights;  but  hooded  lamps,  making  faint 
patches  of  radiance  on  the  deck,  were  stowed  away 
under  our  bulwarks. 

Our  station  was  one  of  the  favourite  beats  of  the 
German  submarines  and  we  lay  there  waiting  for  the 
deadly  sower  of  tares,  waiting  for  her  as  for  a  thief  in 
the  night.  From  time  to  time  pale  shafts  of  light, 
terminating  in  an  arc  of  phosphorescent  cloud,  crept 
across  the  sky,  searching  for  the  secret  menace  of  the 
air  as  we  were  searching  for  the  lurking  terror  of  the 
sea.  Now  and  again  wraith-like  ships  with  all  lights 
out  stole  across  the  field  of  our  vision,  and  sometimes 
our  ears  caught  the  pulsation  of  the  engines  of  a  ship 
we  could  not  see. 

Time  itself  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  how  long  we 
lay  like  that  I  could  not  tell.  Mystery  brooded  over 
our  watch  and  I  found  myself  speaking  to  the  Lieu- 
tenant in  subdued  whispers.  Suddenly,  one  of  the 
men,  ascending  through  the  hatchway  that  led  down 
to  the  tomb  of  the  wireless  operator,  passed  up  a 
piece  of  flimsy  paper  to  the  Lieutenant.  He  took  it 
into  the  unlighted  chart-room,  and,  as  I  fell  over  the 
table,  he  struck  a  match  and  by  its  flickering  light  I 
saw  his  face*  as  he  read  the  message — HOSTILE  SUB- 
MARINES IN  SIGHT.  COURSE  NOT  KNOWN.  As  he 
read  these  words  aloud — and  others — the  match  went 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  49 

out.  He  groped  in  the  dark  for  a  locker,  detachable 
and  weighted,  and  taking  something  therefrom  he 
invited  me  to  come  below.  Once  down  in  our  sleep- 
ing cabin  he  unrolled  a  mysterious  map  under  the 
oil-lamp,  and  putting  his  finger  on  one  of  the  squares 
he  said,  "They're  there."  Then  we  went  on  deck. 

He  took  an  electric  signalling-lamp  and  holding  it 
up  over  the  bulwarks  he  flashed  a  message  to  the 
distant  motor  launch.  A  sequence  of  flashes  an- 
swered it.  And  once  more  we  resumed  our  vigil. 

The  night  dragged  on,  the  watch  was  relieved,  the 
stars  changed  their  stations  as  the  earth  rolled  on 
through  interstellar  space.  I  sat  in  the  bows  gazing 
into  the  mysterious  night  and  hearing  nothing  but 
the  whispered  soliloquy  of  the  waters  beneath  me. 
The  dark-gray  silhouette  of  a  transport  crept  by, 
deeply  laden,  for  the  sound  of  her  propeller  never 
reached  me.  Then  a  barque  glided  past,  but  not  a 
murmur  escaped  her,  not  a  sail  thrashed,  not  a  block 
creaked.  They  might  have  been  the  ghosts  of  the 
murdered  ships  that  lay  fathoms  deep  beneath  us, 
deep  in  the  sepulchral  sea.  From  time  to  time 
dark  objects  floated  by — a  packing  case,  a  hatch, 
an  upturned  boat,  a  derelict  sleeper,  the  mute  and 
plaintive  witnesses  to  a  sinister  and  implacable  terror 
"more  fell  than  hunger,  anguish,  or  the  sea."  I 
gazed  down  at  the  waters  in  which  the  phosphorus 
glowed  faintly  like  pale  mangolds,  wondering  what 
tragic  secrets  their  inscrutable  depths  concealed. 
There  grew  on  my  drowsy  senses  a  feeling  that  the 
sea,  as  it  heaved  on  its  bed  under  the  tidal  moon, 


So  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

was  talking  in  its  sleep.  Faint  peals  of  sound 
seemed  to  animate  the  watery  depths  as  though  the 
sea  were  a  belfry  in  which  the  bell  of  every  foundered 
ship  was  tolling  the  watches  of  the  night.  I  heard 
a  dull  tapping  on  our  stern — I  went  aft  but  could  see 
nothing  but  the  shadowy  figure  of  one  of  the  deck 
hands.  Then  a  hollow  gasp,  like  a  cork  drawn  from 
a  bottle,  came  from  our  port  bow.  The  next  mo- 
ment a  deep  sepulchral  cough  echoed  from  amid- 
ships; I  looked  down  through  the  skylight  and  saw 
one  of  the  crew  turning  uneasily  in  his  sleep.  By 
some  strange  acoustic  illusion  his  coughing  seemed 
to  be  coming  from  the  depths  of  the  sea.  Each 
illusion  was  dispelled  only  to  be  succeeded  by  an- 
other. A  block  creaked,  the  cordage  chafed,  a 
chain  rattled.  And  there  grew  on  me  a  masterful 
conviction  that  we  were  not  alone.  I  lifted  my  eyes 
and  they  lighted  suddenly  upon  a  dark,  boat-shaped 
object  gliding  stealthily  past  in  the  current  about 
two  hundred  yards  away.  The  next  moment  the 
beacon  flashed  across  the  waters,  rending  the  veil  of 
night,  and  in  one  trenchant  glimpse  I  saw  that  it 
was  a  ship's  lifeboat.  Over  the  gunwale  drooped 
the  body  of  a  man,  the  head  downward  between 
the  extended  arms  and  the  hands  lapped  by  the 
hungry  waters.  Across  the  stern  another  head 
rested  with  the  pallid  face  turned  upward  and 
gleaming  in  the  cold,  searching  light.  I  heard  a  soft 
footfall  behind  me,  and  turning,  saw  the  skipper 
gazing  over  my  shoulder.  The  next  moment  the 
beacon  went  out. 


THE  SOWER  OF  TARES  51 

One  by  one  the  stars  paled,  diminished,  and  dis- 
appeared; the  surface  of  the  waters  turned  from  black 
to  a  leaden  gray  and,  with  the  first  flush  of  dawn, 
gleamed  like  mother-of-pearl.  I  looked  around  me. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
salt,  inhospitable,  secret  sea. 


IV 

THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS 

"La  couronne  du  soldat  est  une  couronne  d'epines" — DE  VIGNY. 

T^  yFY  FRIEND  paused  for  a  moment  and  stared 
\/j  reflectively  at  the  pattern  of  the  dado; 
•1*  *  A  "Courage.  What  is  courage?  I  don't  know. 
Courage  in  the  heat  of  action,  we've  all  got  that,  I 
suppose.  It's  an  animal  instinct.  There's  a  certain 
gregariousness  in  it,  the  instinct  of  the  herd,  the  eyes 
of  other  fellows  on  you.  And  after  all,  to  face 
death  requires  far  less  courage  than  to  face  life, 
which,  at  any  rate  by  the  time  you  are  forty,  is 
much  the  more  terrible  of  the  two.  But  there's 
another  kind  of  courage — the  courage  to  take  lonely 
decisions  amid  a  dance  of  conflicting  ideas,  to  resist 
the  importunities  of  pity,  or  maybe  of  prudence,  and 
all  the  beckoning  spectres  of  imagination;  that  kind 
of  courage — resolution,  in  fact — well,  that's  not  so 
common.  I  mean  what  that  chap  Conrad  calls  a 
power  to  ignore  'the  solicitation  of  ideas/  That's 
what  I  call  the  courage  of  the  Higher  Command. 
The  courage  of  a  subaltern  is  one  thing;  the  courage 
of  a  commanding  officer  is  quite  another.  You 
know  what  I  mean?  A  fellow  may  be  a  good  obser- 
ver, a  good  judge  of  positions,  perfectly  cool  in 

52 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  53 

charge  of  the  fire-control  when  the  enemy's  ranging 
and.  gets  a  bracket  on  you — and  yet  he  may  be 
utterly  unfit  to  command  a  battery,  still  more  a 
brigade — incapable  of  knowing  when  to  take  his 
guns  out  of  action,  for  example;  he  may  hang  on  too 
long  or  not  long  enough.  He  may  think  too  much. 
It's  really  not  a  question  of  cowardice  at  all — a  man's 
more  often  undone  by  fear  for  the  safety  of  others 
than  by  fear  for  his  own — by  a  want  of  hardness  in 
his  composition,  if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know.  It's  a  distinction  not  un- 
known to  military  law,  after  all.  Physical  cowardice: 
cold  feet,  blue  funk,  means  undue  regard  for  one's 
personal  safety,  as  the  charge  sheet  puts  it.  Moral 
cowardice:  irresolution,  doubt,  all  that  we  call 
'conduct  to  the  prejudice  of  good  order  and  military 
discipline." 

"Quite.  And  it's  the  second  that  is  really  seduc- 
tive. It's  not  danger  that  intimidates  the  man  of 
forty,  but  responsibility.  Even  his  affections  may 
betray  him.  I  knew  an  O.C.  who  never  got  over 
having  his  battalion  cut  up  and  losing  three-fourths 
of  his  officers — it  broke  his  nerve,  he  always  got 
calculating  prospective  losses  in  an  attack;  it  wasn't 
his  own  life  he  valued  but  the  lives  of  his  men.  I 
often  think  he  courted  the  bullet  that  put  an  end  to 
his  perplexities,  poor  chap.  The  Hun,  who  thinks 
of  everything,  thought  all  that  out  long  ago.  Do 
you  remember  that  passage  in  his  text-book  in 
which  he  warns  the  German  officer  against  'the 
contagion  of  humanitarian  ideas'? 


54  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Now  I  knew  a  case,  a  hard  case  if  ever  there  was 
one,  one  of  those  dilemmas  of  duty  and  conscience 
that  De  Vigny  used  to  say  were  the  baneful  lot  of 
the  soldier  who  thinks  too  much.  Yes,  I'll  tell  it  to 
you.  It  happened  during  the  retreat  from  Mons. 
I  suppose  there  never  was  a  show  which  called  for 
greater  resolution,  for  all  that  one  understands  by 
moral  courage,  than  that;  for  uncertainty  brooded 
over  us  like  a  nightmare.  It  was  not  what  we  knew 
we  had  to  face,  but  what  we  did  not  know,  that 
troubled  us.  There  were  we  constantly  reconnoitr- 
ing and  taking  up  a  position  and  then  being  ordered 
to  abandon  it;  continually  getting  alarms;  sometimes 
firing  a  round  point  blank  with  the  fuse  at  zero, 
through  a  hedge  in  a  village,  at  Uhlans  who  were  not 
there;  despatch  riders  rushing  in  from  encounters 
with  enemy  patrols  and  magnifying  them  into 
armies;  and  the  inscrutable  woods  dogging  us  the 
whole  way,  dark  and  sinister.  The  air  was  thick 
with  rumour  and  suspicion,  and  every  day  came 
fresh  orders — orders  against  spies,  against  inter- 
mittent smoke  from  chimneys,  against  guides, 
against  refugees.  I  never  took  my  clothes  off  the 
whole  time — except  on  the  28th,  when  some  damned 
fool  of  a  staff  officer  sent  out  the  order  to  burn  all 
officers'  kits,  and,  seeing  that  I  might  just  as  well 
burn  my  old  tunic  and  breeches  instead  of  my  new 
ones  in  the  valise,  I  did  a  quick  change.  We  never 
unlimbered  after  Le  Cateau;  and  that  night — I'm 
coming  to  it  in  a  moment — we  didn't  even  unhar- 
ness; the  horses  slept  on  their  feet,  and  the  drivers 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  55 

beside  them.  Talk  about  scares!  One  never  knew 
what  was  behind  one — no,  nor  what  was  on  our  left 
or  on  our  right.  Why,  I  remember  the  Cornwalls 
received  one  of  our  supply  columns  in  the  dark  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet.  We  moved  in  a  mist — 
a  mist  of  conjecture,  rumour,  invention,  exaggeration, 
and  doubt.  Mind  you,  Fm  not  saying  the  men 
ever  got  the  wind  up.  Oh,  no!  not  they!  Besides, 
every  O.C.  told  his  men  that  it  was  all  part  of  a  great 
strategic  plan  to  lure  the  Germans  on  and  catch 
them  in  a  trap.  And  the  men  believed  it.  So  did 
we  officers  for  that  matter,  but  our  trouble  was 
that  we  did  not  know  what  that  plan  was.  We  did 
not  know  we  were  playing  a  big  game — we  knew  the 
rules  of  the  game  but  we  did  not  know  what  the 
game  might  be.  I'd  have  given  anything  to  know 
exactly  what  we  were  up  against.  At  last  we  got 
that  Intelligence  Summary  of  the  3ist.  It  told  us 
something  like  this:  'The  march  of  a  German  col- 
umn five  hours9  long  was  observed  yesterday  on  the  road 
from  Amiens  to  Saint- Just-en-Chaus  see — aerial  recon- 
naissance establishes  the  movement  of  strong  and  hostile 
columns  fifteen  miles  long,  preceded  by  cavalry,  from 
Roye  to  Compiegne,  also  of  a  force  southeast  toward 
Montdidier,'  and  so  on.  Pretty  stiff,  wasn't  it? 
And  yet  I  felt  positively  bucked  up.  Yes,  bucked 
up.  Anyhow,  I  thought,  bad  news  is  better  than  no 
news — and  so  it  is,  in  war.  But  that  was  on  the  3 1st, 
remember.  The  story  Fm  going  to  tell  you  hap- 
pened before  that,  at  a  time  when  no  one  knew 
anything. 


56  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"It  was  in  the  retreat  from  Le  Cateau.  I  didn't 
see  very  much  of  the  battle  itself.  As  you  know,  a 
gunner  never  does,  unless  he's  observing,  and  my 
battery  was  well  under  cover  behind  rising  ground. 
In  fact,  beyond  stray  shells  searching  for  our  wagon- 
line  positions — which  I  had,  of  course,  placed  care- 
fully about  400  yards  back  on  the  flank  of  the 
battery — we  didn't  get  it  very  hot.  But  about 
2  P.M.  there  was  a  great  volume  of  enemy  artillery 
fire,  the  crackle  of  our  musketry  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  I  knew  that  we  were  being  driven  back. 
My  battery  received  orders  to  retire  to  a  position 
to  cover  the  retreat  of  the  other  batteries.  The 
infantry  began  retiring  past  us,  the  cavalry  helping 
to  cover  their  retreat.  Jolly  well  they  did  it,  too — 
they  were  everywhere.  Acting  the  part  of  a  stage 
army,  dismounting,  putting  in  a  few  rounds  rapid, 
then  into  the  saddle  and  starting  the  same  game 
somewhere  else,  so  as  to  give  the  enemy  the  impres- 
sion of  our  being  in  greater  strength  than  we  really 
are.  That  went  on  till  nightfall  when  the  battery 
received  the  order  to  retire,  which  we  did,  wagons 
leading  so  as  to  be  ready  for  'action  rear'  at  any 
moment.  But  a  lot  of  the  infantry  were  still  be- 
hind and  our  Brigadier  ordered  us  to  halt  for  them 
to  catch  us  up,  in  order  that  we  might  take  as  many 
as  possible  on  our  limbers,  for  they  were  dead  beat 
and  dropping  in  their  tracks.  We  took  them  up, 
eight  to  twelve  on  a  carriage,  all  clinging  to  each 
other  like  tired  children  to  prevent  their  falling  off", 
and  nodding,  nodding,  nodding  their  heads  like 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  57 

clock-work  dolls.  That  halt  was  nearly  fatal  be- 
cause the  rest  of  the  column  had  gone  on  ahead  of 
us;  the  night  was  dark,  the  road  unmetalled,  and 
they  had  vanished  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  like 
ghosts. 

"I  felt  pretty  uncomfortable,  I  can  tell  you,  for 
that  had  happened  once  before  and  I  had  heard  of 
columns  taking  the  wrong  road  and  marching  straight 
into  the  Germans  and  never  being  heard  of  again. 
I  had  no  instructions  as  to  the  route  and  all  the 
country  people  seemed  to  have  fled.  And  there  was 
I,  with  the  tail  end  of  the  column  at  a  place  where 
five  cross-roads  met.  I  legged  up  a  sign-post, 
flashed  my  torch  on  to  it,  and  hung  on  there  per- 
plexed and  profane,  with  the  moths  fluttering  in  my 
face,  when,  as  luck  would  have  it,  up  came  Gen- 
eral  ,  our  Divisional  G.O.C.  with  a  staff  officer 

of  his.  He  put  us  right.  He  told  me  to  stop 
where  I  was  and  see  that  all  the  column  followed 
the  correct  road  toward  a  certain  place  and  then  to 
ride  along  it  and  report  if  the  whole  of  it  was  closed 
up  and  of  what  units  it  was  composed. 

"It  was  a  strange  business,  uncanny  you  might 
say.  The  night  was  dark  and  the  order  had  been 
given  that  there  was  to  be  no  smoking  or  talking  in 
the  columns.  One  heard  nothing  but  the  steady 
tramp,  tramp,  tramp  on  the  road  as  the  shadowy 
frieze  of  tired  men  marched  past  in  a  cloud  of  dust 
like  a  river  mist,  silent  and  half  asleep.  Every 
now  and  then  a  man  would  pitch  forward  on  his 
face  and  lie  where  he  fell  as  though  struck  by  a 


58  ,  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

bullet.  I  was  half  asleep  myself,  but  woke  suddenly 
as  a  cockchafer  came  straight  at  me  and  with  a 
buzz  hit  me  in  the  face.  The  faint  whisper  of  the 
poplars  gradually  grew  louder,  the  wind  rose,  and 
rain  began  to  fall.  Every  few  yards  I  pulled  up, 
in  order  to  identify  the  units,  and  called  out  'Who 
are  you?'  At  that  some  sleepy  O.C.  would  pull 
up  his  horse,  halt  the  column,  the  men,  who  held 
their  rifles  at  'the  carry,'  would  suddenly  come  to 
the  'on  guard'  position  with  the  bayonet,  and  the 
O.C.,  ranging  up  beside  me  and  peering  into  my 
face  with  his  hand  on  his  revolver,  would  say  'Who 
the  devil  are  you?  What  do  you  want  to  know 
for?'  The  whole  of  'em  would  be  suddenly  most 
unpleasantly  wide  awake.  Oh!  they  were  topping! 
You  see  I  wasn't  a  staff  officer,  and  for  all  they 
knew,  I  might  be  a  German  spy — such  things 
happened  more  than  once.  I  had  many  altercations 
but  I  always  satisfied  them — or  I  wouldn't  be  here 
now.  Once  or  twice  my  horse  stopped  dead,  throw- 
ing me  forward  on  her  neck,  and  shied  at  a  dark 
object  lying  motionless  on  the  road.  I  peered  down 
and  saw  it  was  a  soldier  fast  asleep.  They  lay  every- 
where as  they  had  fallen  out,  sleeping  like  corpses. 

"I'm  telling  you  all  this  so  that  you  may  under- 
stand what  the  tension  of  that  night  was — and 
remember,  there  had  been  several  nights  like  it 
before  Le  Cateau,  and  some  of  the  men,  as  you'll 
hear  in  a  moment,  were  not  so  lucky  as  these  were, 
but  had  got  strayed  far  from  the  column  and  were 
wandering  through  hedges  and  ditches  far  away  to 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  59 

our  left  with  the  Germans  on  their  flanks.  It  was 
worse  for  them  because  they  were  away  from  the 
batteries,  and  it's  wonderful  how  the  sight  of  a 
battery  will  put  heart  into  an  infantryman — it 
makes  him  feel  he's  being  looked  after.  I  collected 
reports  from  practically  every  unit,  though  there 
was  one  derelict  battalion  without  its  O.C.,  and, 
what  was  stranger  still,  quite  ignorant  of  what  had 
happened  to  him.  I  then  rode  ahead  of  the  Column 
to  report  to  the  General  and  found  him  in  a  cottage 
with  the  rest  of  his  staff.  A  staff  officer  sleepily 
pointed  to  an  inner  room.  I  knocked;  there  was  no 
answer.  I  gently  opened  the  door  and  saw  the 
General  in  a  chair  with  his  head  resting  upon  his 
arms  which  were  extended  on  the  table.  He  was 
fast  asleep,  and  from  a  tallow  candle  burning  limply 
in  a  bottle  the  hot  grease  dripped  upon  the  back 
of  his  hand  and  stuck  there.  I  coughed  loudly  but 
the  General  slept  on.  Then  I  deliberately  kicked 
over  a  chair.  The  General  raised  his  head  and 
stared  dully  at  me  as  I  saluted  and  made  my  report. 
Before  I  had  finished  he  was  fast  asleep  again. 

"I  could  find  no  shelter  of  any  kind  for  myself, 
and  the  men  lay  in  the  streets — many  of  them  with- 
out overcoats — amid  the  rain  which  was  now  driz- 
zling steadily.  They  did  not  even  pile  arms,  every 
man  slept  with  his  rifle  beside  him,  and  of  course  no 
fires  were  lit.  Each  unit  had  been  ordered  to  pro- 
vide its  own  outposts — one  or  two  officers  and  from 
ten  to  twenty  men  posted  on  the  high  ground  on 
each  side  of  the  road.  I  lay  down  against  a  hay- 


60  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

stack — (or  was  it  a  shock  of  corn  ?  I  can't  remem- 
ber)— in  a  stubblefield,  but  the  night  was  so  cold 
that,  tired  as  I  was,  I  could  not  sleep.  So  I  got  up 
and  walked  about  and  masticated  bully  beef  to  get 
some  warmth  into  me.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
night — the  mysterious  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
steady  hiss  of  the  rain,  the  statuesque  figures  of  the 
outposts,  the  recumbent  forms  of  the  men,  some  of 
whom  now  and  again  turned  and  muttered  in  their 
sleep,  and  far  away  to  the  north  the  glare  of  burning 
homesteads  lighting  up  the  sky.  At  4  A.M.  the  whole 

column  got   the  order  to  move  toward .     We 

fed  and  watered  our  horses,  and  every  man  in  my 
battery  found  time  to  shave  and  was  as  spick  and 
span  as  though  we  were  on  parade.  And  the  in- 
fantry marched  off  in  column  of  fours  in  perfect 
step,  singing  'Tipperary'  as  'though  they  hadn't  a 
trouble  in  the  world.  And  this  you  will  remember 
was  after  days  and  nights  of  marching  and  fighting 
with  not  more  than  a  few  hours'  sleep  on  a  pavee 
street  for  a  spring  mattress.  D'you  know,  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  English  soldier's 
always  at  his  best  when  things  are  at  their  worst. 
There  be  three  things  that  are  too  wonderful  for  me 
— the  way  of  a  Tommy  in  a  hole,  the  way  of  a  Tom- 
my up  a  tree,  and  the  way  of  a  Tommy  in  the  midst 
of  a  rearguard  action.  Selah!  .  .  . 

"Where  was  I  ?  Well,  now,  my  story  really  begins 
where  I  personally  leave  off  because  it's  concerned 
with  the  fortunes  of  the  missing  unit  (or  what  was 
left  of  it)  and  their  O.C.,  whom  the  night  had 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  61 

swallowed  up  like  the  vasty  deep.  But  I've  had 
to  tell  you  all  this  in  order  that  you  might  realize 
what  that  night  must  have  meant  for  them.  Trying 
as  it  was  for  us  it  was  much  worse  for  them  because, 
as  IVe  said,  they'd  got  hopelessly  lost  and  were 
practically  isolated  away  on  our  left  in  the  direction 
of  the  Germans.  It  was  only  afterward  that  I 
learnt  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you — never  mind  how! 
They'd  got  away  from  the  battle,  the  men  being 
thrown  into  'artillery  formation'  to  reduce  as  much 
as  possible  the  risks  of  shrapnel,  and  somehow  the 
file  that  some  of  them  were  following,  led  by  their 
O.C.,  got  separated  and  they  lost  their  connection 
with  the  main  body.  They  halted  at  a  village  at 
dusk  and  snatched  some  sleep  for  an  hour  or  two — all 
of  them  except  the  O.C.  who  was  afraid  to  go  to 
sleep  as  he  had  no  one  he  could  rely  on  to  wake  him 
up.  He'd  been  walking  arm  in  arm  with  his  adjutant 
(before  he  lost  sight  of  him)  like  two  drunken  men — 
the  two  of  them  having  agreed  on  this  as  the  likeliest 
way  of  keeping  each  other  awake.  That  O.C.  had 
been,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  without  sleep  for  five 
nights — perhaps  you  know  what  that  means.  And 
he  had  no  horse;  his  horse  had  gone  lame.  Well, 
they  marched  more  or  less  throughout  the  night, 
steering  south  by  the  compass,  and  fetched  up  about 
midday  in  a  certain  place  of  which  we  are  hearing  a 
good  deal  just  now.  There'd  been  much  coming 
and  going  of  our  staff  in  that  place,  but  by  the  time 
the  O.C.  and  his  men  got  there  everybody  had  cleared 
out,  for  the  Huns  were  reported  in  great  strength 


62  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

in  the  neighbourhood.  Shells  had  been  falling  on 
their  right  some  distance  outside  the  town,  and  as 
they  crawled  into  it  a  motorcyclist,  hatless,  livid, 
crouching  over  his  machine  with  the  throttle  opened 
out  for  all  he  was  worth,  shouted  to  them  that  he'd 
been  chased  by  Uhlans  who  had  cut  up  a  French 
civil  guard.  Also  other  things — most  of  them  unin- 
telligible but  all  of  them  bad.  Then  he  disappeared. 
The  O.C.  halted  his  men  in  the  station-yard  and 
made  inquiries  about  trains.  There  was  not  a  sign 
of  a  R.T.O.  and  no  one  in  the  station  except  a  dis- 
tracted station-master  who  informed  him  that  there 
wasn't  so  much  as  a  trolley  left.  A  panic-stricken 
French  civilian  rushed  up,  beckoned,  pointed  vag- 
uely toward  the  northeast,  and  shouted  * Alle- 
man  s9;  then  ran,  hell  for  leather,  out  of  the  deserted 
station-yard. 

"The  O.C.  was  at  his  wits'  end  to  know  what  to 
do.  He  told  his  men  to  stand  easy  while  he  went 
off  to  the  mairie  to  find  out  how  matters  really  stood. 
The  maire,  who  was  tearing  up  and  down  the  room, 
running  his  hand  through  his  beard,  looked  at  him 
with  eyes  full  of  terror. 

{((0h,  mon  Dieu!  c'est  finiT  he  cried  at  the  sight  of 
the  officer,  and,  taking  him  by  the  arm,  he  drew 
him  toward  the  door  and  begged  him  to  clear  out. 

"But  why?'  said  the  bewildered  officer,  who  could 
not  understand  why  the  sight  of  a  British  uniform 
should  be  so  unwelcome. 

"'Oh,  mon  Dieu!  we  are  all  undone  if  you  stay. 
Go!  Go!  Leave  us,  I  beg  of  you.  The  Germans 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  63 

surround  the  town.  Hark!'  The  windows  rattled 
in  their  frames  as  the  thunder  of  distant  artillery 
reached  their  ears.  'You  do  not  understand — no? 
If  the  Germans  find  you  and  your  men  here  they  will 
destroy  us  all.  You  have  heard  what  they  have 
done  in  Belgium — yes  ?  Oh,  mon  Dieu  I  think  of  the 
women  and  children.  If  they  find  you  here,  they 
will  say  it  is  not  "an  undefended  town."  They  will 
burn  our  roofs  over  our  heads,  they  will  shoot  us, 
husbands  and  fathers,  against  the  wall  and  then — ah! 
apres  !  Think  of  the  women  and  little  children.' 

"We  will  defend  you,'  said  the  officer  with  a 
confidence  he  did  not  feel. 

"You!  How  many  men  have  you  got?'  shrieked 
the  mayor. 

"'About  two  hundred,'  said  the  officer. 

"Two  hundred!  It  is  a  jest — une  mauvaise 
plaisanterie.  The  Germans — they  are  an  army 
corps.' 

"The  officer  went  back  to  the  station-yard.  He 
looked  at  the  men  who  lay  sleeping  on  the  cobbles. 
They  had  cast  down  their  packs,  and  many  of  them 
had  taken  the  boots  off  their  blistered  feet.  'They're 
done  up,  sir,'  said  the  sergeant-major,  and  it  was 
pretty  obvious.  What  was  the  O.C.  to  do?  It  was 
doubtful  whether  the  men  were  capable  of  marching 
out  of  the  town  or  whether,  if  they  were,  they  were 
physically  capable  of  putting  up  a  fight  when  they 
got  outside.  On  the  other  hand,  if  they  remained 
under  arms  where  they  were,  their  presence  would 
give  the  Germans  just  the  kind  of  excuse  which,  as 


64  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

you  know,  they  are  not  slow  to  seize,  an  excuse  for 
wreaking  a  fury  of  lust  and  slaughter  upon  the 
unoffending  inhabitants.  The  O.C.  decided  that 
the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  wait  until  his  men 
had  slept  off  something  of  the  deadly  fatigue  which 
drugged  them  like  an  opiate  and  in  the  mean- 
while   Well,  there's  the  rub.  Now  Fm  not 

going  to  defend  what  he  decided  to  do.  No!  I'm 
not.  There  are  several  things  he  ought  to  have  done 
first — he  ought  to  have  sent  out  a  party  to  recon- 
noitre and  discover  where  and  in  what  strength  the 
Germans  really  were.  He  ought  never  to  have 
signed  that  paper,  or,  at  any  rate,  he  ought  never  to 
have  put  in  those  words  about  'unconditional  sur- 
render'— but  more  of  that  in  a  moment.  He  ought, 
at  the  worst,  to  have  sent  out  a  flag  of  truce  and  put 
a  bold  face  on  it,  and  bluffed  the  Huns  with  talk  of 
terms  as  though  he  were  in  great  force.  He  ought  to 
have  done  anything  but  what  he  did  do.  Still,  it's 
easy  for  me  to  say  all  this  after  the  event,  sitting  in 
a  club  arm-chair,  after  a  good  dinner  and  a  night 
between  linen  sheets.  Oh,  yes!  Well,  he  ordered 
the  N.C.O's  to  fall  the  men  in  and  he  then  began 
a  short  speech.  He  told  the  men  there  was  no 
chance  of  escape  and  that  to  attempt  to  defend  the 
town  would  merely  provoke  a  massacre  of  the  in- 
habitants when  the  Germans  arrived.  Then  he 
asked  the  men  if  any  one  of  them  would  'like' — 
'like,'  mind  you — to  fight  their  way  out.  When 
an  O.C.  throws  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  his  own 
men  like  that,  well,  things  are  in  a  pretty  bad  way — 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  65 

it's  uncommonly  like  abdication.  What  could  you 
expect  ?  The  men  stared  at  each  other,  not  knowing 
what  to  make  of  it.  Some  said  'Yes,'  some  said 
'No,'  others  said  nothing  at  all,  wondering  what 
was  coming  next. 

"'Well,'  said  the  O.C.  after  a  pause,  'you're  pris- 
oners of  war.  You  must  disarm,'  and  he  ordered  the 
N.C.O.'s  to  stack  the  arms  in  a  shed.  The  men 
were  restive  at  this,  the  N.C.O's.  took  counsel  to- 
gether apart,  and  at  last  one  of  'em  spoke  up  and 
said  something  about  what  was  the  use  of  stopping 
there  and  getting  their  throats  cut.  The  O.C. 
pondered  on  this,  and  at  last  he  said  it  was  all  right, 
he  would  see  that  everything  was  in  order  and  have  a 
paper  ready  for  the  Germans  telling  them  it  was  a 
formal  surrender.  The  men  had  the  most  implicit 
faith  in  their  O.C.,  and  they  had  to  be  content  with 
that.  And  mind  you,  that  O.C.  was  one  of  the 
bravest  men  who  ever  wore  the  King's  uniform — 
Oh,  yes!  There's  no  doubt  about  that.  He  didn't 
care  a  brass  farthing  for  his  own  life,  but  he  cared  a 
great  deal  for  the  lives  of  the  women  and  children 
in  the  town;  and  tired,  dead  tired,  faint  and  drugged 
with  want  of  sleep,  perplexed  in  the  extreme,  he — 
well,  there's  no  more  to  be  said.  Perhaps  he  hoped 
to  gain  time — to  secure  a  mental  armistice  for  the 
conflict  of  ideas  in  his  brain,  until  he  and  his  men 
were  fit  to  march  and  could  relieve  the  town  of  their 
compromising  presence. 

"Anyhow,  he  went  off  to  the  mairie  to  sign  that 
paper.  Never  mind  what  was  in  it — the  less  said  the 


66  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

better.  Enough  that  there  were  two  words  that,  as 
it  happened,  could  never  be  blotted  out,  and  those 
two  words  were  'unconditional  surrender/ 

"The  hours  dragged  on.  The  sun  passed  its 
meridian,  the  shadows  deepened  in  the  yard,  and  the 
men  lounged  about  without  their  arms,  some  of 
them  washing,  some  of  them  asleep.  The  O.C. 
sat  in  a  room  that  looked  out  on  the  square,  only 
half  awake,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  clear  young 
voice  outside. 

"'Now  then,  you  men,  what  the  devil  are  you 
doing  there?  Turn  out!  Come  on!  Get  your 
arms.  Fall  in!' 

"The  officer  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  out. 

"There  was  a  young  cavalry  subaltern — only  a 
boy,  faced  by  a  group  of  sullen  men  now  reinforced 
by  an  O.C.  old  enough  to  be  his  father. 

"What  d'you  mean  by  ordering  my  men  about?' 
said  the  O.C. 

"I  never  learnt  the  name  of  that  young  cub,  but 
I  must  say  he  was  a  topper.  He  faced  the  O.C. 
without  turning  a  hair  and  said  coldly:  'Where 
are  their  arms?' 

"It  was  a  deadly  thrust.  I  won't  repeat  all  that 
followed — it  was  pretty  painful.  Let  it  pass.  The 
O.C.  tried  to  explain.  The  explanation  was  hor- 
ribly like  an  apology,  and  this  from  an  O.C.  to  a 
subaltern  in  the  presence  of  the  men!  The  subal- 
tern turned  his  back  and  once  more  ordered  tke  men 
to  fall  in.  I  suppose  that  brought  the  O.C.  out  of 
his  trance.  He  stepped  forward  and  told  the  men 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS  67 

that  the  situation  had  changed  and  that  he  would 
march  out  at  the  head  of  them. 

"'But  what  about  the  paper?'  said  a  voice. 

"'The  paper.  What  paper?'  said  the  subaltern, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  O.C.  And  then  the  whole 
story  came  out.  The  subaltern  said  nothing,  but 
when  the  O.C.  said  he  would  go  to  the  mairie  and 
destroy  the  paper,  the  subaltern  followed  him. 
They  walked  there  side  by  side  in  absolute  silence. 
When  they  arrived  the  O.C.  asked  for  the  paper, 
but  as  the  maire  held  it  out,  the  subaltern  stepped 
forward,  seized  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"'It  is  my  duty  to  keep  this  for  the  G.O.C.,  sir!' 
he  said  quietly. 

"The  O.C.  said  nothing.     What  could  he  say? 

"A  few  minutes  later  the  men  limped  out,  their 
O.C.  at  the  head  of  them,  followed  by  a  string  of 
carts  carrying  those  who  were  too  lame  to  walk. 
When  they  had  gone  about  three  miles  and  were 
safely  on  the  right  road,  the  subaltern  reined  in  his 
horse,  saluted,  and  said,  'I  think  I  can  be  of  no 
further  use,  sir — I  will  push  on  to  H.Q.' 

"The  O.C.  returned  his  salute,  and,  after  a  mo- 
mentary hesitation  that  must  have  been  unspeakably 
painful  to  see,  put  out  his  hand.  The  sub.  was 
surprised,  as  any  sub.  would  have  been,  at  this 
civilian  gesture.  But  I  guess  he  understood  what  a 
hell  the  other  must  be  going  through,  and  leaning 
down  from  the  saddle,  he  shook  the  outstretched 
hand.  Then  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  vanished 
in  a  cloud  of  dust." 


THE  A.  P.  M. 

A  A. P.M.  has  more  acquaintances  and  fewer 
friends  than  any  officer  in  His  Majesty's  forces. 
It  is  his  duty  to  know  everyone  wisely  but  not 
to  know  any  one  too  well.  He  should  never  accept 
hospitality,  and  rarely  offer  it,  unless  it  be  a  lodging 
for  the  night.  If  he  offers  you  this  form  of  entertain- 
ment you  cannot  refuse.  He  has  to  know  all  about 
etiquette;  if  he  asks  an  officer  for  his  name  and  regi- 
ment he  must  be  careful  to  have  his  armlet  on,  and  if 
he  enters  another  A.P.M/s  "beat"  he  must  be  equally 
careful  to  have  it  off.  He  should  know  a  lady  when  he 
sees  one.  He  may  ask  an  officer  for  his  belt,  but  he 
should  not  ask  him  for  his  "slacks."  He  should 
never  swear,  except  at  a  court-martial,  and  then  not 
profanely.  It  is  never  safe  to  ask  him  the  way,  as  he  is 
naturally  suspicious  and  may  think  you  know  it  but 
cannot  walk  it.  The  fact  that  he  is  called  Assistant 
Provost  Marshal  does  not  mean  that  he  is  meant  to 
assist  officers  home,  though  he  sometimes  offers  to  do 
so.  When  he  does  that  be  sure  you  ask  for  a  medical 
officer  as  soon  as  you  get  there,  and  say  you  don't 
feel  at  all  well.  The  A. P.M.  has  few  equals  and  no 
superiors.  He  can  ask  any  officer  he  likes  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  him,  though  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  this  is 

68 


THE  A.  P.  M.  69 

a  compliment,  and  it  is  unwise  to  refuse.  He  is  privi- 
leged to  attend  executions,  which  he  does  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  but  not  to  blow  his  nose.  He  is 
very  fond  of  exercise.  He  takes  other  people's 
pleasures  sadly.  He  has  a  profound  distrust  of 
human  nature  but  he  is  seldom  indignant  and  never 
surprised.  It  is  very  difficult  to  make  him  see  a  joke 
— especially  a  practical  one.  His  manners  are,  in- 
deed, more  subdued  than  jovial;  he  will  sometimes 
touch  an  officer  on  the  shoulder,  but  he  rarely  slaps 
him  on  the  back.  He  is  fond  of  frequenting  estaminets, 
especially  after  8  P.  M.,  but  this  does  not  mean  that 
he  has  convivial  tastes.  He  has  the  insatiable  curios- 
ity of  a  child  without  its  ingenuousness — his  curiosity 
lacks  charm. 

From  all  of  this  it  will  be  gathered  that  an  A.P.M., 
although  invariably  a  man  of  parts,  is  usually  more 
feared  than  loved.  He  is  a  lonely  man. 

Now  there  was  once  a  young  A. P.M.  who  feared 
neither  God  nor  man — always  excepting  the  P.M. 
who  is  a  Brigadier  and  has  power  to  bind  and  loose. 
He  was  zealous — so  much  so  that  the  zeal  of  his  office 
had  almost  eaten  him  up.  So  when  he  was  not 
posting  road-controls  and  instructing  examining  posts, 
or  parading  his  "red  caps,"  he  would  sit  and  meditate 
on  spies  like  the  harlot  in  the  Book  of  Joshua.  In  the 
matter  of  spies  your  Intelligence  Officer  is  the  plain- 
clothes  man  and  your  A.P.M.  is  the  policeman;  the 
Intelligence  picks  up  the  scent  but  the  A.P.M.  does  the 
kill.  Now  this  young  A.P.M.  longed  with  a  great 
longing  for  a  bag.  So  far  he  had  had  no  luck.  It 


70  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

never  seemed  to  come  his  way  as  it  came  the  way  of 
other  fellows  he  knew.  There  was  Wetherby  in  a 
certain  home  command,  who  had  had  a  glorious  stunt, 
capturing  the  commercial  traveller  with  a  valise  of 
saturated  underclothing  which  had  yielded  the  most 
surprising  results  in  the  hands  of  an  analytical  chem- 
ist; there  was  Chipchase,  A.P.M.  to  a  Division,  who 
had  located  the  sniper  under  the  tombstone  just  behind 
our  lines;  there  was  Ledger  who  had  caught  a  female 
of  disarming  ingenuousness  at  a  certain  base  as  the 
result  of  a  train  of  induction  which  began  with  no 
other  data  than  the  fact  that  in  knitting  she  always 
looped  the  yarn  over  the  forefinger  of  the  left  hand 
instead  of  the  right,  and  in  eating  laid  her  knife  and 
fork  parallel  across  her  plate,  which  is  a  way  they 
have  in  Germany — but  then  Ledger  had  had  a  Ger- 
man governess  and  his  bag  was  luck,  pure  luck.  Still 
these  things_showed  what  could  be  done  by  observa- 
tion. 

One  morning  as  he  was  sitting  in  his  office  making  up 
his  weekly  report,  the  orderly  entered  and  placed  a 
buff-coloured  envelope  in  the  "In"  box  where  it  lay 
until  such  time  as  the  A.P.M. ,  glancing  up  from  his 
papers,  chanced  to  observe  that  it  was  marked  "Confi- 
dential." He  languidly  ripped  it  open  with  a  bored 
intuition  that  some  officer  had  been  over-staying  his 
leave  or  having  a  difference  of  opinion  with  Mr.  Cox 
about  the  principles  of  banking.  Then  he  suddenly 
sat  up  in  his  chair  as  he  caught  the  head  note  "From 

the  Commander  of  the Naval  Base  to  the  A.P.M. 

of  the District."    And  this  is  what  he  read: 


THE  A.  P.  M.  71 

Lieutenant  Commander of  the'Night  Patrol  reports 

that  about  1 1  P.  M.  on  the  25th,  he  observed  intermittent 
lights  on  the  coast  some  500  yards  from  Winstone  Point. 
They  appeared  to  be  signals  in  the  Morse  code  addressed 
to  some  ship  at  sea.  We  have  no  signalling  station  at  that 
point.  Lt.-Commdr. was  unable  to  read  the  mes- 
sages in  full,  owing  to  the  signals  being  apparently  ad- 
dressed to  someone  lying  nearer  in  shore.  The  only 
words  he  succeeded  in  detecting  were  "Yes";  "No"; 
"Repeat."  There  has  been  considerable  activity  of  late 
on  the  part  of  J7-boats  along  this  coast,  under  circumstances 
wrhich  seem  to  indicate  precise  knowledge  of  the  sailings 

from harbour.     It  will  be  remembered  that  on  the 

25th  a  tramp  steamer  which  had  cleared  from  the  har- 
bour about  10  P.  M.,  while  following  the  course  indicated 
in  the  Admiralty  sailing  instructions,  and  showing  neither 
port  nor  starboard  lights,  was  torpedoed  about  midnight. 
I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  keep  this  locality  under 
strict  observation,  please. 

The  A.P.M.  read  this  through  twice.  There  might 
be  nothing  in  it,  of  course — he  had  known  more  than 
once  what  it  was  to  get  on  a  false  scent.  And  he  felt 
alternately  exalted  and  depressed.  The  coast  was  well 
patrolled  and  all  approaches  to  the  beach  were  pro- 
hibited by  an  order  issued  by  the  C.N.A.  under  De- 
fence of  the  Realm  regulation  28 A,  closing  them  nightly 
at  6  o'clock.  Besides,  the  Morse  code  seemed  a 
little  too  obvious,  and  the  A.P.M.  had  a  passion 
for  the  obscure,  not  realizing  that  the  most  success- 
ful deceptions  are  always  the  simplest,  and  that 
monosyllables  like  "Yes"  and  "No"  may,  in  a  cipher, 


72  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

stand  for  other  things  than  mere   affirmatives  and 
negatives. 

The  A.P.M.  had  read  a  great  many  detective  stories 
— which  is  a  very  bad  training  for  a  detective.  Life  is 
never  so  elaborate  as  fiction.  In  the  spy  stories  of 
fiction  there  is  usually  a  master  mind  who  erects  a 
scaffolding  round  a  house  in  a  perfect  state  of  repair 
and  employs  six  secret  agents  as  bricklayers,  merely 
in  order  that  one  of  them  may  drop  a  brick  from  his 
hod  on  the  head  of  the  detective  as  he  passes  by;  he 
hires  a  powerful  Rolls-Royce  to  procure  his  death  by  a 
street  accident;  or  he  watches  his  movements  by  aerial 
reconnaissance  from  an  aeroplane;  and  he  invariably 
uses  a  cipher  language  so  obviously  obscure  that  it 
shrieks  for  elucidation  as  loudly  as  a  cuneiform  in- 
scription. You  must  have  noticed  this  if  you  are  in 
the  habit  of  reading  detective  stories.  But  the  real 
spy  never  does  anything  so  melodramatic  or  so  sug- 
gestive; he  usually  journeys  by  tram  or  motor-bus, 
eats  buns  in  an  A. B.C.  shop,  travels  in  Dutch  cigars  or 
cinema  films,  and  is  nothing  if  not  unobtrusive.  He 
does  not  use  numerals  for  letters  or  transpose  the 
alphabet;  he  sends  transparently  simple  messages 
about  invoices,  or  contents  himself  with  posting  a 
catalogue  of  cigars  or  a  newspaper.  It  is  only  your 
trained  "Intelligence"  men  who  will  guess  that  the 
commercial  correspondence,  the  price  list  of  Havanas, 
or  the  stop  press  space  may  have  a  secondary  meaning. 
The  art  of  espionage  consists  in  making  the  primary 
meaning  so  obvious  that  a  secondary  meaning  will 
never  besuspected.  It  is  theart  of  the  double  entendre. 


THE  A.  P.  M.  73 

The  A. P.M.  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  He  was  not 
an  "M.  I."  man  and  had  never  worn  the  green  tabs 
of  an  intellectual  life.  Consequently  his  first  flush  of 
certitude  was  succeeded  by  a  cold  fit  of  doubt.  The 
situation  seemed  to  lack  colour.  A  restaurant  in 
Soho,  a  suite  of  rooms  at  the  Ritz,  an  alcove  in  the 
National  Liberal  Club,  an  opium  den  in  Whitechapel 
—such  romantic  surroundings,  he  felt,  were  the 
proper  mise  en  scene  for  a  real  spy  stunt.  At  that 
moment  the  orderly  entered  with  a  telegram.  The 
A. P.M.  opened  it,  and  as  he  read  his  heart  went 
"dot  and  carry  one."  For  this  was  what  he  read: 

"TAHW  ECIRP  EMBARKATION  DRAFTS  RETTOR  MA 
DEF  Pu  ON  DOOG  ATAT. 

"DECENCY  LONDON." 

Decoded  this  ran: 

Suspect  embarkation  drafts  sailings  are  known  to 
U-boats  please  set  a  watch  upon  coast  in  vicinity  of 
harbour. 

Then  he  knew  his  chance  had  come.  He  spent  a 
restless  day  counting  the  hours  till  dusk.  About 
8  p.  M.,  after  a  deliberately  frugal  meal,  he  girded  up 
his  loins  with  his  Sam  Browne  belt,  slipped  his  Mark 
Webley  into  its  holster,  and  set  out  on  foot  for  Win- 
stone  Point.  As  he  proposed  to  begin  with  a  recon- 
naissance he  decided  to  go  alone.  It  was  a  warm 
night,  but  there  was  that  brooding  apprehension  in 
the  air  which  seems  to  portend  a  thunderstorm,  and 


74  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

low  down  on  the  horizon  Orion,  the  herald  of  troubled 
weather,  shone  with  a  baleful  light. 

Winstone  Point  is  a  bold  headland  on  the  west 
side  of  which  lies  a  small  fishing  village.  The  Point 
is  the  limestone  termination  of  a  long  greyhound- 
backed  down  which  runs  inland  for  many  miles  and 
is  covered  with  short,  crisp  turf  and  creeping  cinque- 
foil.  It  is  intersected  by  a  winding  track  strewn 
with  flints  chipped  into  sharp  and  minute  splinters 
like  thorns  by  the  chisel-like  feet  of  flocks  of  sheep. 
The  A.P.M.  carefully  avoided  this  track  as  he 
climbed  the  down,  and  finding  a  small  dew-pond  like 
a  shell-hole,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  whole 
ridge  as  it  ran  inland,  he  crouched  against  its  grassy 
slopes.  The  night  was  dark  save  for  the  feeble  light 
of  the  stars,  and  as  he  glanced  at  the  phosphorescent 
glow  of  his  wrist  watch  he  could  just  make  out  the 
position  of  the  hands — they  were  at  10:30.  His  posi- 
tion was  about  a  mile  due  north  of  the  spot  where 
the  ridge  terminated  in  an  abrupt  cliff,  some  four 
hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  and  he  was  facing 
northeast.  For  a  long  time  nothing  happened  as  he 
lay  there  listening  to  the  beating  of  his  heart  and  the 
faint  chafing  of  the  sea  upon  the  distant  beach. 
Then  he  suddenly  saw  a  flash  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
farther  inland,  where  the  down  attained  a  greater 
altitude.  It  was  followed  by  a  sequence  of  short  and 
long  flashes,  and  he  realized  that  someone  was 
signalling  in  the  Morse  code.  He  made  out  the 
words  " ANSWER,"  "GENERAL  ANSWER."  Then  a 
pause.  Then  "No";  "YEs";  "REPEAT";  "No"; 


THE  A.  P.  M.  ;  75 

"YES";  "109  BATTALION";  "JUNE  4."    Then  the 
signals  ceased. 

He  lay  on  his  stomach  on  the  turf  waiting  for  their 
repetition.  Nothing  happened.  Reflecting  that  his 
prey  might  use  the  track  on  his  right  for  his  return 
journey,  he  continued  to  wait,  oblivious  of  time. 
Meanwhile  the  sky,  long  obscure,  grew  black  above 
him,  the  air  curdled  and  thickened,  not  a  breath  of 
wind  stirred  the  sultry  atmosphere.  Something  cold 
as  dew  hopped  on  to  his  hand,  and  as  he  moved 
jumped  suddenly,  so  that  his  heart  jumped  with  it. 
It  was  a  toad.  The  sheep  grazing  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill  had  disappeared.  The  furze  bushes  were 
suddenly  shaken  by  a  violent  convulsion,  the  clumps 
of  young  heather  rustled  like  tissue  paper,  and  every 
bent  of  grass  trembled.  At  that  moment  a  shaft  of 
light  cleft  the  sky  downward  from  zenith  to  horizon, 
and  in  one  trenchant  glimpse  he  saw  the  whole  sea 
for  miles,  and  outlined  upon  it,  like  the  silhouettes  in 
a  naval  textbook,  the  shapes  of  the  patrol-boats 
black  as  ink  against  a  background  of  burnished  silver. 
The  heavens  opened  their  batteries,  and  as  the  thun- 
der crashed  the  rain  descended  in  torrents  and  smote 
the  hard,  dry  earth  like  hail.  Another  flash  rent  the 
sky,  and  by  its  blue  corrosive  light  the  A.P.M.  saw 
the  whole  ridge  and  every  furze  bush  upon  it.  But 
not  a  living  thing  stirred.  The  mysterious  signaller 
had  vanished.  Drenched  to  the  skin,  with  runnels  of 
water  down  his  back,  the  A.P.M.  rose  stiffly.  All 
further  quest  was  useless  that  night.  He  took  out 
his  knife,  cut  a  branch  of  furze,  and  digging  a  small 


76  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

hole  in  the  earth  he  planted  it  upright  in  front  of 
him.  Then  he  drew  back  some  two  yards,  and  plac- 
ing his  walking  stick  in  a  line  with  the  twig  on  what 
he  judged  to  be  the  point  where  he  had  last  seen  the 
signals,  as  though  he  were  bringing  the  sights  of  a 
rifle  to  bear  on  a  given  object,  he  planted  the  stick 
firmly  in  the  ground.  An  hour  later  he  was  in  bed. 

He  was  trying  to  read  a  signal  of  baffling  brightness, 
when  he  awoke  out  of  a  troubled  dream  to  find  the 
sun  shining  full  upon  his  face.  He  rose  and  dressed 
and,  after  a  hasty  breakfast,  determined  to  visit  the 
scene  of  the  night's  operations.  Before  leaving  he 
gave  orders  that  the  sergeant  of  the  military  police 
with  a  picquet  of  three  men  should  join  him  at  2 
p.  M.  at  the  fishing  village  on  the  western  slope  of 
Winstone  Point. 

He  went  armed  as  before,  but  this  time  he  took 
with  him  a  magnifying  glass  with  a  handle  such  as  is 
used  for  reading  print  by  persons  who  suffer  from 
myopia.  He  had  purchased  that  magnifying  glass 
some  months  earlier  as  the  result  of  a  careful  study 
of  the  operations  of  a  classical  detective  whose  name 
is  a  household  word  as  the  discoverer  of  the  Inductive 
Method.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to  use  it. 

He  left  his  horse  at  the  village  inn  and  ascended  the 
down.  He  discovered  the  two  sticks  without  diffi- 
culty, and  taking  a  compass  bearing  he  found  that 
they  were  aligned  on  a  point  due  north  northeast. 
He  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  indicated,  keeping 
a  sharp  eye  on  the  turf  after  he  had  covered  about  a 
mile.  He  suddenly  came  to  a  halt  at  a  spot  where  he 


THE  A.  P.  M.  77 

saw  a  number  of  matches.  Examining  the  ground 
more  closely  he  thought  he  found  traces  of  trampled 
grass  which  the  rain  had  not  wholly  obliterated. 
Then  he  went  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and 
scrutinized  every  blade  of  grass  with  his  magnifying 
glass.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  had  gathered  the 
following: 

(1)  Nineteen  burnt  matches. 

(2)  A  piece  of  burnt  paper. 

(3)  A  pipeful  of  tobacco  only  partially  consumed. 

(4)  A  small  piece  of  sausage. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  applied  the  Inductive 
Method.  He  tried  to  reconstruct  the  personality 
of  the  suspect  from  these  apparently  insignificant 
trifles.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour's  deep  meditation 
he  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  man  had  a 
tooth  missing  in  the  centre  of  the  upper  jaw,  was 
one-armed,  probably  careless  of  money,  and  very 
probably  a  German.  How?  By  a  simple  process  of 
ratiocination:  The  serrated  edge  of  the  half-eaten 
sausage  revealed  the  marks  of  an  even  row  of  teeth, 
but  in  the  middle  of  the  perimeter  there  was  a  gap. 
Nineteen  matches  had  been  expended  in  an  attempt 
to  light  one  pipe — there  was  no  trace  of  ashes  beyond 
those  of  the  half-consumed  wad  of  tobacco — and  each 
of  the  matches  had  only  burnt  to  the  extent  of  an 
eighth  of  an  inch;  this  showed  that  they  had  been 
extinguished  as  soon  as  lit,  a  contretemps  so  unusual 
as  to  be  only  explicable  on  the  assumption  that  the 


78  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

smoker  had  been  unable  to  use  his  left  hand  to  shield 
the  match  held  in  his  right.  The  waste  of  tobacco 
costing  njd.  an  ounce  pointed  to  an  indifference  to 
considerations  of  economy;  an  application  of  the 
method  of  Observation  and  Experiment  to  the 
tobacco  by  first  smelling  it  and  then  smoking  it  had 
convinced  the  A.P.M.  that  it  was  a  choice  blend  of 
"  John  Cotton."  The  nationality  of  the  suspect  was 
more  difficult  to  establish;  the  sausage  suggested 
German  nationality;  but  the  A.P.M.  would  have  felt 
more  assured  if  he  could  have  detected  in  its  composi- 
tion traces  of  those  cubes  of  onion  and  garlic  with 
which  the  maker  of  Delikatessen  tickles  the  coarse  pal- 
ate of  the  Hun.  But  an  examination  with  the  magni- 
fying glass  yielded  no  assurance  on  this  point.  Still 
it  was  a  working  hypothesis. 

Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  scrap  of  paper. 
It  was  a  piece  of  ordinary  writing  paper  some  three 
inches  by  four,  but  on  holding  it  up  against  the  light 
he  failed  to  find  any  traces  of  a  water-mark.  He 
scrutinized  the  written  characters  and  saw  at  a 
glance  they  were  in  a  foreign  tongue.  He  did  not 
know  a  word  of  German  although  he  knew  that  the 
language  was  not  French.  But  he  was  struck  by  the 
prevalence  of  words  ending  in  the  letters  "ch." 
Although  the  characters  had  been  partly  obliterated 
by  the  rain,  he  could  make  out  clearly  the  words 
"bach"  and  "hoch."  His  pulses  quickened  as  he 
reflected  that  the  German  tongue  was  notoriously 
a  language  of  gutturals.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the 
word  "Strafe,"  and  persuasion  became  a  certainty. 


THE  A.  P.  M.  79 

Theifragment  of  sausageyinconclusive  and  insignificant 
in  itself,  added  nothing  to  what  was  now  a  conviction, 
but  undeniably  it  strengthened  it.  He  descended  the 
hill  with  a  light  heart. 

He  knew  that  stern  things  lay  ahead  of  him.  For 
the  uninterned  German  who  chooses  to  play  the  part 
of  spy  an  ignominious  death  is  the  inevitable  penalty, 
and  the  man  would  in  all  probability  sell  his  life 
dearly.  But  the  A.P.M.  was  not  a  man  to  flinch. 
He  telephoned  through  to  his  office,  giving  orders  to 
the  sergeant  that  each  man  was  to  bring  his  revolver. 
Then  he  went  to  a  chalk-pit  some  hundred  yards  from 
the  village  and  fired  the  six  chambers  of  his  own 
revolver  in  succession  to  test  the  trigger-pull;  the 
weapon  was  in  perfect  trim  though  the  pull  was  a  bit 
heavy,  and  he  regretted  now  that  he  had  not,  as  he 
had  long  intended,  had  the  pressure  reduced  to  six 
pounds.  Only  one  thing  remained  to  do — and  he 
did  it.  He  sent  off  a  code  telegram  to  "Decency, 
London."  It  contained  the  following  message: 

"HAVE  MATTER  WELL  IN  HAND.  IMPORTANT 
DEVELOPMENTS.  WILL  REPORT  TO-MORROW." 

This  was  not  strictly  necessary,  but  you  must  re- 
member that  the  A.P.M.  was  young  and  zealous. 
And  youth  does  not  like  to  hide  its  light  under  a 
bushel;  it  prefers  to  let  it  shine  before  men.  It  is  a 
venial  fault. 

During  the  afternoon  he  rehearsed  his  plans  for  the 
night.  He  despatched  his  four  men  by  different 


8o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

routes,  avoiding  the  beaten  track,  with  orders  to 
assemble  at  a  stunted  beech  tree  which  was  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  place  of  his  discoveries.  They  were 
instructed  to  keep  completely  out  of  sight,  taking 
all  possible  cover  so  as  to  escape  notice  by  any  one 
who  might  be  keeping  the  open  spaces  of  the  hill- 
side under  the  observation  of  a  pair  of  field-glasses. 
The  A.P.M.  himself  approached  the  rendezvous  by 
the  most  open  route  like  any  casual  wayfarer.  They 
met  at  the  appointed  place  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour. 
Each  of  the  men  reported  that  he  had  seen  nothing. 
They  had  carefully  observed  their  direction  and  the 
A.P.M.  felt  confident  that  forty  minutes  would 
suffice  for  the  night's  advance.  He  therefore  timed 
the  start  for  10:20  P.  M.  - 

At  the  appointed  time  the  four  men,  who  had  been 
disposed  in  such  a  manner  that  they  formed  an  ap- 
proximate circle  with  the  beech  tree  in  the  centre, 
slowly  converged  on  their  objective  and  halted  some 
hundred  yards  away.  The  A.P.M.  had  arranged  to 
simulate  the  plaintive  cry  of  a  peewit  as  the  signal 
for  closing  in.  They  lay  there  for  what  seemed  an 
interminable  time  until  a  rosy  flush  in  the  east 
heralded  the  approach  of  dawn  and  a  lark  rose  in  the 
morning  air.  The  A.P.M.  began  to  fear  that  they 
had  been  observed. 

He  decided  to  remain  where  he  was  all  the  next 
day,  keeping  the  men  with  him  so  that  no  movement 
of  theirs  on  the  hillside  should  be  visible  to  the 
secret  watcher.  One  man  was  detailed  as  a  ration 
party  to  crawl  down  the  hill  as  unobtrusively  as 


THE  A.  P.  M.  81 

possible  and  bring  back  food  and  water.  It  was  a 
tedious  vigil.  The  sun  beat  down  fiercely  upon  their 
heads,  the  flies  tormented  them  like  the  seven  plagues 
of  Egypt,  they  had  a  most  amazing  thirst,  and  as  he  lay 
on  his  back  the  A.P.M.  reflected  that  the  attractions  of 
a  detective's  career  are  greatly  exaggerated  in  fiction. 
The  sun  set  at  last,  sinking  in  a  ball  of  fire  below  the 
horizon,  and  within  less  than  half  an  hour  one  man 
crawled  in  from  his  observation  post  a  hundred  yards 
away,  and  reported  the  approach  of  four  men.  The 
A.P.M.  was  a  little  taken  aback  at  the  number.  He 
drew  his  revolver  out  of  its  holster  and  waited. 

His  men  had  orders  that  no  blood  was  to  be  shed 
except  in  case  of  extreme  necessity;  it  was  important 
to  capture  the  spies  alive,  for  they  might  be  the 
means  of  eliciting  valuable  information.  The  new- 
comers were  slow  in  arriving,  but  as  they  approached 
their  voices  grew  more  distinct.  They  spoke  a 
foreign  tongue  full  of  strange  gutturals.  And  at 
times  they  uttered  the  letter  "1"  in  a  curious  way  as 
though  they  were  clearing  their  palate  with  a  view  to 
expectoration.  The  A.P.M.  despatched  his  man  to 
relieve  another  who  was  stationed  nearer  the  doomed 
men;  the  other  reported  that  their  conversation  was 
unmistakably  German — he  had  distinctly  heard  the 
word  "  Strafe,"  though  the  rest  of  it  was  unintelligi- 
ble. The  four  spies  clustered  together,  and  one  of 
them  suddenly  flashed  a  lamp. 

At  that  movement  the  military  policeman  by  the 
side  of  the  A.P.M.  tried  to  distract  his  attention  in  a 
hurried  whisper.  " Hush !  you  fool,"  said  the  A.P.M. 


82  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

testily,  and  pursing  his  lips  as  though  he  were  draw- 
ing at  a  pipe  he  uttered  the  shrill  cry  of  a  peewit. 
The  A. P.M.  and  three  of  his  men  rushed  forward 
noiselessly  over  the  turf,  the  fourth  unaccountably 
lagging  behind.  It  was  beautifully  done.  Each  mili- 
tary policeman  closed  with  the  man  nearest  him,  the 
A.P.M.  catching  his  man  with  either  hand  around  the 
ankles  and  bringing  him  heavily  to  the  ground.  He 
fell  with  him  and  as  he  did  so  received  the  impact  of  a 
huge  fist  in  his  eye  which  make  him  see  flashes  such  as 
are  not  recognized  in  the  Morse  code. 

"Blast!"  said  his  victim,  and  as  he  struggled  he 
poured  forth  a  torrent  of  invective.  Most  of  it  was 
unmistakably  English,  but  unfamiliar  words  like 
"Duw"  and  " Diawl"  caught  the  A.P.M.'s  ear  and 
the  accent  was  foreign  and  peculiar.  Therefore  the 
A.P.M. ,  giving  himself  the  benefit  of  the  doubt, 
tightened  his  grip  on  the  profane  man's  windpipe. 

"Let  me  go  now,  look  you.  Yes,  indeed,"  said  a 
voice  near  by,  as  though  the  owner  was  trying  to 
agree  with  his  adversary  quickly.  "You  have  got 
your  knee  in  my  guts  whatever.  There's  foolish 
you  are,  man.  I  was  have  a  belly-ache.  And  for 
why  ?  Duw  anwyl !  man,  stop  it,  I  tell  you." 

"It's  the  South  Wales  Borderers,  sir,"  said  the 
fourth  policeman  who  had  betrayed  such  indecision 
at  the  last  moment  and  who  now  came  up  panting. 
"And  I  think  they've  been  doing  signal  practice.  I 
saw  the  answering  signal  on  the  hill  t'other  side  of  the 
bay  just  now,  sir.  And  I  tried  to  draw  your  atten- 
tion to  it,  sir/5  he  added  with  gloomy  satisfaction. 


THE  A.  P.  M.  83 

The  A.P.M.  relaxed  his  hold,  and  the  combatants 
rose  to  their  feet.  He  had  nearly  strangled  the  life 
out  of  a  sergeant  of  a  crack  Welsh  regiment.  The 
others  rose  also,  including  a  military  policeman  who, 
having  been  an  ostler  in  private  life,  had  been  trying 
desperately  to  sit  on  his  opponent's  head,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  he  still  kicked.  Serious  things 
had  been  done  upon  the  earth  that  night.  The 
penalty  for  striking  a  superior  officer  on  active  ser- 
vice is  death — and  the  sergeant  had  struck,  and  pain- 
fully. The  penalty  for  an  officer  who  strikes  a  sol- 
dier at  any  time  is  dismissal,  and  the  A.P.M.  had  in- 
curred it.  Four  military  policemen  had  committed 
an  unprovoked  and  aggravated  assault  on  three 
inoffensive  soldiers  engaged  in  the  performance  of  a 
military  duty — which  is  a  tort,  a  misdemeanour,  and 
also  a  statutory  offence  under  the  Army  Act. 

The  British  army  is  a  wonderful  thing.  The  ser- 
geant of  the  Borderers  gravely  saluted  the  officer  to 
whom  he  had  given  a  black  eye,  and  the  A.P.M. 
returned  the  salute  with  no  less  gravity.  The  ser- 
geant, with  his  windpipe  still  somewhat  contracted 
by  the  pressure  from  his  superior  officer's  fingers, 
proceeded  to  offer  an  explanation  with  the  mechanical 
precision  of  a  soldier  giving  evidence  at  a  court- 
martial: 

"At  6  p.  m.  on  the  24^,  I  wass  ordered  by  the  signall- 
ing officer  of  the  loqth  Battalion  the  South  Wales  Bor- 
derers to  proceed  to  Winstone  Point.  I  wass  arrive 
there  at  dusk ." 

"That  will  do,  sergeant,"  said  the  A.  P.M,  smiling 


84  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

bitterly.     "I  think  I  know  the  rest — which  I  can 
explain  better  than  you  can."     And  he  did. 

As  the  A.P.M.  retired  down  the  hill  with  his 
picquet  he  thought  deeply — this  time  deductively. 
The  major  premiss  of  his  syllogism  does  not  matter, 
but  the  conclusion  was  depressing.  He  could  not 
stand  the  sergeant  of  the  Borderers  a  drink;  in  an 
A.P.M.  that  would  be  conduct  exceedingly  "prej- 
udicial." To  offer  him  the  price  of  one  would  be 
worse.  But  a  little  gift  in  kind — there  would  be  no 
harm  in  that,  just  to  show  there  was  no  ill  feeling. 
When  he  got  back  to  his  billet  that  night  his  eye 
(the  uninflamed  one)  lit  on  a  book  which  had  been  one 
of  his  dearest  possessions,  but  which  he  now  regarded 
with  a  hostile  air.  He  had  had  it  specially  bound  in 
tooled  morocco.  He  packed  it  up  and  posted  it  to 
the  sergeant  with  his  compliments.  Its  title  was 
"The  Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes." 

The  sergeant  of  the  Borderers  held  his  tongue — for 
obvious  reasons.  But  one  of  his  men  must  have 
talked.  And  as  the  sparks  fly  upward,  the  story 
spread  from  hutments  to  the  orderly  room,  from  the 
orderly  room  to  the  officers'  mess,  from  the  officers' 
mess  to  Brigade  H.Q.,  and  from  Brigade  H.Q.  to  the 
H.Q.  of  the  command,  till  it  was  noised  abroad  from 
Dan  even  to  Beersheba.  I  have  already  said  that 
an  A.P.M.  is  more  feared  than  loved,  and  that  he  is 
apt  to  be  a  lonely  man.  The  A.P.M.  was  no  longer 
sure  that  he  was  feared  but  he  was  certain  that  he 
felt  very  lonely.  He  has  applied  for  a  transfer. 


VI 

NO  MAN'S  LAND 

THIS  story  was  told  me  by  Kennedy  as  we  sat 
one  night  over  the  fire  in  my  billet  in  France 
in  a  little  town  which  serves  as  the  Head- 
quarters of  the  Second  Echelon.  You  can  make  of  it 
what  you  please.  Only  let  me  tell  you  that  Kennedy 
is  not  an  impressionable  man — but  neither  is  he 
obtuse.  He  has  read  much  and  thought  more.  He 
is  forty,  an  age  at  which  a  man  is  either  a  fool  or  a 
philosopher.  Kennedy  is  not  a  fool.  And  philoso- 
phy, as  a  wise  man  has  remarked,  begins  in  wonder. 
He  might  have  added  that  it  also  ends  there. 

I  had  read  out  an  announcement  on  the  front  page 
of  the  Times,  which  told  us  for  the  first  time  that  a 
friend,  whose  fate  had  long  been  the  subject  of  pain- 
ful speculation  to  us  both,  was  "Reported  missing; 
believed  killed."  It  reminded  me,  and  I  reminded 
Kennedy,  of  the  story  of  an  old  grandmere  I  had  met 
in  one  of  my  billets  whose  only  son  had  been  reported 
"missing"  at  Gravelotte  in  1870,  and  who  still,  in 
this  year  of  grace  1916,  watched  and  waited,  as  for 
forty-six  years  she  had  waited  and  watched,  for  his 
return. 

"Mad,  of  course,  poor  thing,"  I  had  added,  as  I 
finished  my  story. 

85 


86  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Don't  be  so  sure  of  that,"  retorted  Kennedy,  and 
then,  seeing  my  look  of  surprise,  he  said  quietly: 
"Who  knows?  He  may  still  be  in  No  Man's  Land. 
No!  It's  a  land  you'll  never  find  on  any  staff  map. 
But  I  see  you  think  I'm  talking  in  riddles.  Well, 
you've  told  me  a  story,  I'll  tell  you  one. 

"It  was  at  my  billet  at ,  the  H.Q.  of  the  — th 

Corps;  about  a  month  ago  before  I  was  shifted  here. 
The  house  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  story;  so 
I'll  have  to  begin  with  that.  I'd  been  home  on  sick 
leave,  having  been  knocked  out  on  the  Somme  by  an 
H.E.  shell,  and  they'd  given  me  a  staff  job  in  the  *!' 
branch.  I  arrived  late  at  night,  the  leave  boat  hav- 
ing been  held  up  while  the  mine-sweepers  were  out, 
and  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  make  tracks  for  the 
Camp  Commandant's,  of  course,  to  get  the  usual 
billet  de  logement;  on  it  was  inscribed  the  name  of  a 
Madame  Doutrepont,  21  rue  Royer-Collard.  He 
told  off  an  orderly  to  show  me  the  way — it  was  a 
perfect  rabbit  warren  of  a  place  and  dark  at  that. 
A  French  town  under  etat  de  siege  is  none  too  well 
lighted.  We  went  stumbling  along  over  the  cobbles, 
and,  after  what  seemed  an  interminable  journey,  in 
the  course  of  which  we  met  nothing  but  wailing  cats 
—we  found  ourselves  in  a  kind  of  cul-de-sac  and  at 
the  end  of  it  was  a  blind  wall  with  one  of  those  huge 
double  doors  like  the  'Gate'  of  an  Oxford  College;  it 
had  a  kind  of  wicket  in  it. 

"It  was  black  as  pitch  and  I  had  to  pass  my  hands 
over  the  door,  like  a  blind  man  feeling  the  contours  of 
somebody's  face,  until  I  found  a  bell-pull.  As  I 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  87 

pulled  it,  there  came  from  far  away  a  long,  echoing 
sound  like  a  bell  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The 
wicket  door  opened  noiselessly  in  response — so  noise- 
lessly that  I  fell  over  the  threshold  as  I  leaned  against 
it.  Odd,  isn't  it,  the  way  those  French  doors 
open  automatically?  I  never  quite  get  over  the 
surprise  of  finding  no  one  behind  them.  Well,  we 
found  ourselves  in  a  kind  of  covered  courtyard 
which  was  even  darker,  if  anything,  than  the  street 
outside,  and  then  an  inner  door  opened  and  I  saw  a 
woman  standing  in  the  doorway  holding  a  lamp  in 
her  hand. 

ftQuest-ce  Id?9  she  called  out  in  a  startled  voice. 
But  her  alarm  changed  to  irritation  when  I  tendered 
her  my  billeting  paper.  She  scrutinized  it  closely 
and  then  looked  long  at  me,  holding  the  lamp  above 
her  head  so  that  its  light  fell  full  upon  my  face  while 
her  own  remained  in  darkness.  A  dog  barked  fur- 
iously at  his  chain  on  the  farther  side  of  the  court- 
yard. 

Tiens,'  she  said  to  him  angrily,  and  then  to  me, 
'C'est  la  guerre?  as  she  motioned  us  in. 

"That  was  all  the  welcome  I  got.  Still,  what  can 
one  expect  ?  I  always  feel  like  a  beastly  bailiff  when 
I  quarter  myself  uninvited  upon  a  woman  'con- 
formement  a  la  loiy  as  the  billeting  paper  puts  it. 
And  they  only  get  half  a  franc  a  night  for  it.  It's 
treating  their  place  like  a  doss  house. 

"As  she  put  down  the  light  in  the  hall  I  saw  that 
she  was  a  tall,  sallow  woman  of  meagre  figure,  but 
with  abundant,  thick,  black  hair  done  up  in  heavy 


88  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

folds.  Her  face  wore  a  curious,  apathetic  expression 
and  her  eyes  had  an  introspective  look  as  though 
her  mind  dwelt  wholly  in  the  past. 

"She  conducted  me  upstairs,  the  orderly  thump- 
ing after  us  with  my  valise  on  his  shoulder  and 
making  the  shadow  a  hunchback  on  the  wall  in  the 
flickering  candle-light,  until  we  had  mounted  four 
long  flights  of  stairs  and  got  to  the  very  top  of  the 
house.  She  threw  open  the  door  of  a  room  without  a 
word.  It  had  rather  a  musty  smell  as  though  it  had 
been  long  disused  and  there  was  no  window  in  it, 
which  was  pretty  beastly,  but  opening  out  of  it  was 
a  kind  of  small  dressing  room.  The  dressing  room 
did  have  a  window,  fortunately — shut,  of  course. 
Having  thanked  the  lady  and  dismissed  the  orderly, 
I  unpacked  my  valise.  After  some  trouble  I  suc- 
ceeded in  unscrewing  the  window-bolt  and  getting 
a  little  clean  air  into  the  room.  Then  I  looked 
round.  In  the  wall  of  the  dressing  room  on  the  far 
side,  opposite  the  folding  doors  and  commanded  by 
my  bed  in  the  other  room,  was  a  big  cupboard  reach- 
ing from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling;  it  was  locked.  The 
only  furniture  of  the  room  was  a  table  and  a  chair. 
I  looked  out  of  the  window  but  could  see  nothing. 
The  air  of  the  courtyard  had  a  curious  smell,  pungent 
but  not  unpleasant.  And  there  was  a  continuous 
sound  of  running  water. 

"I  slept  soundly  that  night,  for  I  was  tired.  In 
the  morning,  as  I  was  going  out  to  breakfast  at  the 
mess,  I  met  Madame  Doutrepont  and  passed  the 
time  of  day.  She  was  a  trifle  more  gracious  than 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  89 

the  night  before  and  volunteered  the  information 
that  her  husband  was  at  the  war,  at  Verdun,  that 
she  lived  all  alone  except  for  a  bonne  who  came  in 
every  day  to  clean  up,  and  that  she  managed  her 
husband's  business  in  his  absence.  The  business 
was  a  tannery,  it  adjoined  the  courtyard  and  was 
worked  by  a  water-mill.  I  tried  to  make  friends  with 
the  dog  as  I  passed  out,  but  he  only  snarled  and 
crept  into  his  kennel.  So  much  for  the  house.  Al- 
together it  seemed  to  me  that  the  atmosphere  of  No. 
21  was  not  exactly  sociable. 

"I  put  in  a  hard  day's  work  over  the  maps  and 
things,  and  after  dinner  in  the  mess  I  decided  to  take 
my  work  home  to  my  billet.  It  was  like  all  'I' 
work,  highly  confidential,  and  the  things  I  took  with 
me  were  worth  their  weight  in  gold  to  a  spy.  I  had 
a  staff  map  showing  our  new  lines,  a  large-scale  oil- 
paper tracing  of  the  positions  held  by  the  — th 
Division,  two  or  three  of  those  buff  manuals  issued 
from  G.H.Q.  and  marked  'not  to  be  taken  into  the 
trenches/  and  so  on. 

"I  sat  up  working  until  after  midnight  with  my 
maps  spread  over  the  table  in  the  dressing  room  and 
about  12.30  A.M.  I  extinguished  the  candle  and  went 
to  bed,  leaving  the  folding  doors  of  the  dressing 
room  wide  open.  In  five  minutes  I  was  asleep. 
How  long  I  slept  I  don't  know,  but  I  was  suddenly 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  dressing 
room.  They  seemed  to  come  from  the  window.  I 
lay  awake  listening,  being  in  some  doubt  whether  I 
was  not  still  asleep,  and  watching  the  dressing  room, 


90  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

the  floor  of  which  was  plainly  visible  from  my  bed  as 
it  was  now  moonlight. 

"Now  the  dressing  room  was  very  small  and  its 
window,  which  was  on  the  left,  disproportionately 
large,  and  the  shape  of  the  window  was  clearly  sil- 
houetted in  a  pattern  upon  the  floor.  And  it  struck 
me  I  must  be  asleep  after  all,  and  dreaming,  be- 
cause nothing  obscured  the  squares  of  pale  light  upon 
the  boards.  Yet  all  the  time  there  seemed  to  be 
feet  shuffling  across  it  in  a  curious,  uncertain  way. 
I  was  still  stupidly  pondering  this  when  the  footsteps 
stopped — apparently  by  the  cupboard,  and  I  heard  a 
scratching  sound — it  was  just  as  if  someone  was 
passing  his  fingers  over  the  panels  in  the  dark. 
Only  it  wasn't  dark.  I  could  see  the  cupboard  in  the 
moonlight  almost  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  you.  I 
raised  myself  in  bed  and  stared  hard,  but  I  could  see 
nothing.  And  yet  by  this  time  I  felt  certain  there 
was  someone  in  that  room.  I  felt  sure  of  it  with 
the  assurance  that  you  feel  someone  behind  you  in 
the  street.  But  there  was  this  difference:  in  such 
cases  you  have  only  to  turn  round  to  have  your 
intuition  confirmed  by  your  sense  of  sight,  whereas 
in  this  case  my  sense  of  sight  gave  the  lie  to  my  in- 
tuition while  my  sense  of  hearing  confirmed  it. 

"I  was  trying  to  puzzle  out  this  contradiction  of 
my  senses  when  I  saw  the  cupboard  doors  move. 
They  moved  slowly  outward  and  I  heard  them 
creak.  But  stare  as  I  did  I  could  see  nothing. 
There  were  those  cupboard  doors  slowly  but  per- 
ceptibly advancing  toward  me  as  if  they  moved  of 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  91 

their  own  accord.  For  a  moment  I  was  really 
afraid — afraid  of  myself,  intimidated  by  the  inco- 
herence of  my  senses.  I  remembered  reading  in  a 
morbid  phase  of  mind,  when  I  was  recovering  from 
shell-shock  and  fancied  I  had  the  symptoms  of  every 
disease  I  could  lay  a  name  to,  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  'mental  blindness/  It  occurs  when  a  man 
has  suffered  some  lesion  of  the  nerve  tracts  connect- 
ing the  occipital  lobes  with  other  centres — that's 
how  the  book  put  it.  A  man  sees  but  doesn't  see 
right.  He  can't  classify  the  optical  impressions  his 
eyes  receive  and  he'll  call  a  clothes-brush  a  pair  of 
spectacles.  Or  he  may  have  mental  deafness — he'll 
hear  a  bell  but  be  powerless  to  recall  what  a  bell 
looks  like;  he'll  say  he's  heard  a  drum.  His  senses 
play  fast  and  loose  with  one  another  until  his  mind 
capitulates  altogether.  It's  often  the  first  stage  in 
delusional  insanity." 

Kennedy  paused  for  a  moment  to  gaze  at  the 
dying  embers  of  the  fire. 

"I  think  what  kept  me  sane,"  he  resumed,  "was 
the  conviction,  a  kind  of  psychic  conviction,  that 
there  really  was  someone  there.  I  felt  its  presence 
far  more  than  I  heard  it.  And  then  in  a  flash  I 
remembered  my  staff  maps  and  Intelligence  papers 
and  with  an  effort  I  quelled  the  insubordination  in 
my  brain.  Some  spy,  I  felt  assured,  was  playing  a 
trick  on  me  to  take  advantage  of  my  confusion. 
The  thought  of  it  aroused  in  me  a  wholesome  anger 
and  from  that  moment  I  had  myself  well  in  hand. 

"I  debated  with  myself  what  to  do.     Not  only 


92  .  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

were  all  my  confidential  papers  in  the  dressing  room, 
but  so  was  my  Webley  revolver,  which  I  had  left  on 
the  table.  If  I  so  much  as  turned  in  my  bed,  the 
visitor,  whoever  he  was,  would  be  able  to  seize  it 
and  cover  me  with  it  from  where  he  was  before  I 
could  reach  the  dressing  room.  What  was  I  to  do? 
I  have  acquired  the  habit  of  prompt  decision — you 
learn  that  out  on  patrol — and  it  didn't  take  me  long 
to  decide  that  my  best  course  was  to  lie  still  and 
wait  till  he  tried  to  pass  again  through  my  room, 
for  he  could  have  entered  no  other  way.  He  must 
have  had  a  key  of  his  own,  for  I  had  locked  the  door 
from  the  inside  before  I  went  to  bed.  But  how 
had  he  managed  to  unlock  it  and  enter  without 
awaking  me?  That  puzzled  me. 

"There  followed  what  seemed  an  interminable 
interval  of  silence,  during  which  I  could  hear  my 
wrist-watch  ticking  as  loudly  as  if  it  were  an  eight- 
day  clock.  Then  I  heard  the  footsteps  recommence. 
They  started  at  the  cupboard  and  approached  my 
room.  I  seemed  to  be  listening  with  every  nerve  in 
my  body,  and,  as  they  approached,  it  struck  me  that 
there  was  something  very  odd  about  them.  They 
were  not  so  much  a  walk  as  a  shuffle,  and  one  foot 
seemed  to  be  reconnoitring  before  the  other  as  if  a 
blind  man  were  exploring  the  floor.  They  ap- 
proached my  bed.  I  lay  rigid  with  my  head  on  my 
pillow  and  with  my  eyes  wide  open,  but  I  could  see 
nothing — no!  not  so  much  as  a  shadow.  The  man 
seemed  to  be  holding  his  breath  all  the  time.  It's 
curious  when  I  come  to  think  of  it — I  never  once  heard 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  93 

him  breathe.  I  was  waiting  my  chance  to  leap  out 
of  bed  and  spring  on  him  from  behind,  as  soon  as  I 
should  hear  him  fumbling  with  the  bedroom  door, 
when  I  suddenly  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  at  the  foot 
of  my  bed.  It  touched  the  outline  of  my  feet  and 
then  drew  sharply  away  as  though  the  owner  were 
startled;  the  next  moment  it  began  groping  the  bed- 
clothes. I  felt  it  through  the  counterpane  travelling 
up  my  body.  But  it  didn't  feel  like  a  human  hand 
at  all.  It  was  more  like  a  claw;  it  seemed  to  be  a 
hand  without  any  finger-tips  and  it  moved  with  a 
kind  of  stealthy  uncertainty.  You  know  how  a  dog 
paws  your  bed?  There  was  something  hypnotic 
about  that  touch;  I  tried  to  shake  it  off  and  I 
couldn't.  I  was  paralysed.  I  felt  again  that 
strange  insubordination  in  my  brain,  and  that  I  was 
losing  all  control  over  my  senses.  For  my  eyes 
were  wide  open  and  I  could  still  see  nothing. 

"How  long  I  lay  like  that  I  don't  know.  I  could 
hear  the  valves  of  my  heart  beating  against  my  ribs 
and  there  was  a  cold  feeling  down  my  spine;  my 
throat  was  dry  as  a  furnace  and  my  skin  crept.  Do 
you  know  the  kind  of  nightmare  in  which  you  dream 
you  are  tied  down  to  two  lines  of  rails  with  a  train 
approaching  along  the  track  and  you  strain  and 
strain  to  break  your  bonds  till  your  heart  seems  to 
be  going  to  burst  ?  Then  you  wake.  But  I  couldn't 
wake,  or  if  I  was  awake  I  couldn't  move.  As  the 
hands  travelled  up  to  my  chest  I  made  a  violent 
effort  to  break  the  spell  and  sprang  in  a  cold  sweat 
from  my  bed.  There  was  a  startled  shuffle  of  the 


94  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

feet,  as  though  the  owner  had  sprung  back  from  the 
bed,  and  they  scuffled  back  toward  the  dressing 
room.  I  hurled  myself  after  them,  hit  out  wildly 
in  their  direction,  and  bruised  my  knuckles  against 
the  folding  doors.  There  was  nothing  there.  My 
hands  were  tingling  with  pain,  but  action  had  re- 
stored my  circulation  and  I  rushed  into  the  dressing 
room.  I  didn't  want  to  strike  again — I  felt  a  sudden 
sense  of  pity;  I  didn't  know  why.  But  I  was  deter- 
mined to  corner  him.  The  footsteps  were  retreating 
toward  the  window;  I  tried  to  intercept  them, 
but  as  I  did  so  I  felt  a  cold  blast  upon  my  face,  the 
window  suddenly  shut  to,  and  the  footsteps  ceased. 

"I  opened  the  window.  The  night  was  still; 
there  was  no  wind,  nothing  but  the  soft  sighing  of 
the  poplars.  I  could  see  nothing.  But  as  I  stood 
at  the  window,  listening  to  the  beating  of  my  own 
heart,  I  heard  the  dog  whining  in  the  courtyard 
below,  the  rattle  of  his  chain  like  an  anchor-chain 
drawn  through  a  hawse-hole,  then  a  pause,  and  then 
the  rattle  of  the  chain  followed  by  another  pause. 
This  went  on  for  several  minutes  and  I  knew  that 
the  dog  was  wildly  pacing  to  and  fro  to  the  very 
limit  of  its  tether.  I  called  to  him,  but  instead  of 
barking  furiously  at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  as  he 
usually  did,  he  merely  whined. 

"The  dressing  room  itself  seemed  undisturbed. 
Indeed  what  puzzled  me  more  than  anything  else 
was  that  the  cupboard  was  shut,  and  when  I  tried 
to  open  it  I  found  it  was  locked.  And  then  I  re- 
flected that  the  fact  it  was  locked  was  the  most 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  95 

reassuring  thing  I  could  have  expected.  I  must 
have  had  a  nightmare  after  all!  After  that  I  felt 
more  cheerful  and  I  determined  to  have  a  pipe  before 
turning  in  again.  I  filled  my  pipe,  struck  a  match, 
and  was  about  to  light  up  when  I  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  the  cupboard  door  in  its  flickering  glow. 
On  the  jamb  of  the  door  was  the  impression  of  a 
thumb  and  four  mutilated  fingers.  I  stood  staring 
at  this  with  the  match  in  my  hand  until  the  flame 
burned  my  fingers  and  I  let  the  match  fall  to  the 
floor.  It  went  out.  I  stood  staring  at  the  cupboard, 
unconscious  of  my  blistered  fingers,  conscious  of 
nothing  except  that  mark  upon  the  door." 

Kennedy  stopped  in  his  narration  and  gazed  into 
the  fire,  as  though  he  could  see  some  image  there. 
After  a  long  pause  he  resumed: 

"Mechanically  I  reached  out  my  hand  for  the  box 
of  matches,  never  taking  my  eyes  off  the  door,  and 
tried  to  strike  another,  but  I  struck  so  hard  that  the 
head  of  the  match  came  off*.  I  struck  again,  lit  the 
candle,  and  held  it  up  to  the  cupboard.  The  marks 
were  still  there:  the  very  cuticle  of  the  skin  was 
clearly  traceable  in  a  dirty  pattern,  as  though  a  dusty 
hand  had  left  its  imprint  upon  the  door.  The 
thumb  was  clearly  outlined,  so  was  the  hand,  but 
the  fingers  stopped  at  the  knuckles  as  if  they  had 
been  amputated.  I  stared  at  them  for  a  long  time. 

"Had  I  delusions?  For  a  moment  there  came 
back  to  me  the  awful  days  I  had  gone  through  when 
I  was  on  sick  leave  and  heard  unfamiliar  voices 
coming  from  great  distances  and  was  afraid  to  be 


96  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

alone  with  my  own  shadow.  I  asked  myself  the 
question:  was  that  baneful  image  really  impressed 
upon  the  door  or  was  it  a  projection  of  my  own  dis- 
ordered brain?  I  tried  looking  at  the  walls  and  the 
ceiling;  it  was  not  there.  I  then  looked  at  the  cup- 
board doors  again;  it  was  still  there.  I  reasoned 
with  myself  that  if  it  was  really  there  it  would  reflect 
itself.  I  took  the  mirror  from  the  dressing  table 
and,  standing  at  an  angle  to  the  door,  I  held  it  up 
so  that  the  door  was  reflected  in  it.  The  image 
appeared  in  the  mirror.  Finally,  to  put  the  matter 
beyond  a  shadow  of  doubt,  I  took  a  piece  of  oil 
paper,  such  as  one  uses  for  map  tracings,  and  having 
heated  it  slightly  over  the  candle  I  held  it  firmly 
for  a  few  seconds  against  the  marks  upon  the  door. 
Then  I  held  it  up  to  the  light.  There  was  a  faint 
anthropometrical  impression  of  a  thumb  and  four 
mutilated  fingers  upon  it.  I  put  the  paper  down 
and  thought  a  long  while.  Then  I  locked  it  up  in 
my  attache  case,  and  taking  up  the  candle  I  went 
down  on  my  hands  and  knees  and  explored  the  planks 
in  the  floors;  they  were  firm.  I  tapped  the  walls; 
they  were  solid.  I  studied  the  ceiling;  the  plaster 
showed  no  crevice.  I  tried  the  door  of  my  bedroom; 
it  was  locked.  My  papers  I  had  seen  at  a  glance 
were  undisturbed. 

"I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  2  A.M.  I  then 
put  a  chair  against  my  bedroom  door  and  sat  down 
upon  it  with  my  Webley  across  my  knees — cocked, 
with  my  finger  upon  the  trigger-pull.  The  candle  I 
kept  alight  beside]  me.  I  waited  and  watched  until 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  97 

the  moon  paled  and  dawn  broke,  but  I  heard  noth- 
ing except  the  sighing  of  the  poplars,  the  trickle  of 
water  through  the  sluices,  and  the  dog  feverishly 
paying  out  his  length  of  chain.  Perhaps  I  dozed  a 
little.  I  got  up  shivering  with  cold  and  crossed  the 
room  to  look  at  the  cupboard  door.  All  trace  of  the 
hand  had  gone.  I  unlocked  my  attache  case  and 
looked  at  the  oil  paper.  It  was  as  blank  as  the  door. 
I  held  it  up  to  the  morning  light;  the  impression  of 
the  skin  had  entirely  disappeared,  but  I  thought  I 
could  detect  the  periphery  outline  of  the  thumb  and 
the  four  stumps  of  fingers. 

"I  felt  worn  out  and  irritable,  but  my  tub  and  a 
shave  refreshed  me  somewhat,  and  after  dressing  I 
went  downstairs  to  breakfast  at  the  mess.  On  my 
way  down  I  encountered  Madame.  She  looked 
even  paler  than  usual,  but  said  nothing  except  a 
languid  'Bon  jour,  M'sieur.9  I  looked  straight  at 
her  and,  watching  the  effect  of  my  words,  I  said: 
'Madame,  is  your  house  haunted?' 

"I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  Her  face 
turned  an  ashen  gray  and  her  fingers  fumbled  with 
her  dress.  'Mais  non,  M'sieur.  Certainement,  non. 
Oh,  non,  non.'  I  couldn't  make  her  out.  Her 
answer  was  more  in  the  nature  of  a  petition  than  a 
denial.  I  had  a  sudden  suspicion  that  she  was 
concealing  something  from  me.  But  I  merely 
bowed  and  passed  out. 

"I  worked  hard  all  day  to  escape  my  thoughts 
and  went  home  to  my  billet  early.  On  entering  my 
bedroom  I  was  surprised  to  see  Madame  in  the 


98  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

dressing  room  in  front  of  the  cupboard,  the  door  of 
which  was  open.  As  she  heard  me  behind  her  she 
hastily  shut  the  cupboard  door  and,  murmuring  some- 
thing about  lingerie,  she  brushed  past  me  and  dis- 
appeared. I  didn't  like  finding  her  in  my  room  but, 
after  all,  it  was  her  house,  not  mine,  and  I  had  al- 
ready taken  good  care  to  remove  all  my  papers 
back  to  the  office.  After  she  had  gone  I  went  to 
have  another  look  at  the  cupboard,  and  I  suddenly 
noticed  that  in  her  haste  and  agitation  she  had  left 
the  key  in  the  door.  I  turned  the  key  and  threw 
open  the  cupboard.  It  was  already  growing  dark, 
and  in  my  hurry  I  didn't  think  about  a  light  at  first. 
I  could  see  the  outline  of  something  with  four  legs. 
Then  I  remembered  to  strike  a  match.  It  was  a 
child's  rocking-horse! 

"And  yet  when  I  recalled  the  experiences  of  the 
night  and  Madame's  agitation  in  the  morning,  to 
say  nothing  of  her  excuse  about  lingerie,  I  wasn't 
altogether  satisfied.  That  cupboard  was  certainly 
no  linen  cupboard.  For  one  thing  there  was  no 
linen  there,  nothing  but  this  plaintive  plaything. 
For  another,  the  cupboard  was  thick  with  dust  and 
the  horse  caparisoned  with  cobwebs.  French  house- 
wives are  much  too  particular  about  their  linen  to 
house  it  in  a  dusthole. 

"Nothing  happened  that  night,  but  next  morning, 
much  to  my  surprise,  Madame  asked  me,  with  some 
diffidence,  if  I  would  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  her  in  the 
salon.  I  assented.  There  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  the  room.  It  was  like  most  of  the  salons  in 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  99 

( French  middle-class  houses — a  parquet  floor,  a 
gilded  radiator  like  a  row  of  organ-pipes,  a  gilt  and 
marble  clock  in  a  glass  case,  and  so  on.  Over  the 
mantelpiece  was  a  portrait  of  a  child — a  boy  of 
about  ten  years  of  age.  After  pouring  out  the  tea 
Madame  took  up  some  knitting  and  began  clicking 
her  needles;  she  explained  that  she  was  making  a 
tricot  for  her  husband  in  the  trenches.  I  thought  it 
was  a  pretence  to  hide  the  agitation  of  her  hands — 
,  curious,  isn't  it,  that  a  European  reveals  his  agitation 
in  his  fingers,  an  Oriental  in  his  toes,  and  I  noticed 
that  she  perpetually  dropped  her  stitches  as  she 
talked.  What  did  she  talk  about?  Oh !  every  thing, 
but  she  always  came  back  to  the  war  and  casualties. 
Were  they  very  heavy  in  our  armies?  How  many 
did  I  think  they  were?  I  drew  in  my  horns  at  that — 
it  is  one  of  the  first  things  a  spy  is  concerned  to  find 
out — for  obvious  reasons.  And  yet  it  seemed  to 
me  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind  and  was 
more  anxious  to  speak  than  to  be  spoken  to.  She 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  gain  time.  You  know 
how  a  person  speaks  when  all  the  time  they  are 
thinking  of  something  else  ?  But  anyhow  she  never 
got  her  guns  laid  on  the  register,  whatever  it  was, 
and  after  an  hour  or  so  I  got  up  and  went  to  bed. 
She  made  no  further  approaches  after  that.  But 
one  thing  struck  me.  I  noticed  every  night  as  I 
went  up  to  bed  that  her  door — which  at  first  she 
had  kept  locked — was  always  slightly  ajar  and  a 
light  burning  in  her  room. 

"A  week  went  by  and  I  had  begun  to  forget  all 


ioo  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

about  my  strange  experiences  when  one  evening  as  I 
got  back  to  my  billet  I  saw  a  gendarme  and  a  woman 
enter  the  house  just  ahead  of  me.  I  hastened  my 
steps,  and  as  I  entered  the  hall  I  heard  someone 
sobbing  in  the  salon.  It  sounded  like  Madame's 
voice  and  I  pushed  open  the  door  and  walked  in 
without  ceremony.  The  gendarme  and  a  woman  in 
black  were  standing  with  grave  faces  in  front  of 
Madame,  who  was  sitting  in  a  chair  gripping  the 
arms  convulsively.  The  gendarme  held  a  piece  of 
blue  paper  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  it  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  it  was  a  warrant  for  her 
arrest.  But  the  idea  no  sooner  entered  my  mind 
than  I  dismissed  it,  for  on  the  gendarme's  face  and 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  accompanied  him — I  now 
recognized  her  as  a  neighbour — was  a  look  of  pro- 
found pity. 

"Fotre  mari  etait  un   heros,  madame,9  the  gen- 
darme said  softly. 

"Then  I  understood.  You  know  they  never  send 
telegrams  in  France  as  we  do.  The  announcement 
is  always  made  personally  by  the  maire  or  a  gen- 
darme, and  a  neighbour  usually  goes  with  him.  Yes, 
they're  not  so  prompt  as  we.  are,  but  I  think  they're 
more  merciful.  There  is  always  a  touch  of  ceremony 
about  these  things  in  France,  you  know. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  the  sight  of  me 
seemed  to  give  the  poor  soul  some  comfort,  though 
Heaven  knows  my  thoughts  had  been  uncharitable 
enough.  She  turned  her  stricken  face  to  me,  still 
clutching  the  sides  of  her  chair,  and  cried:  'Ah! 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  101 

monsieur  le  capitaine,  c'etait  lui,  c'etait  lui[!     I  know, 
I  know.     I  heard  him  that  night.' 

"My  eyes  must  have  betrayed  my  astonishment; 

I  thought  her  sorrow  had  turned  her  brain. 

"'You  do  not  understand,  non?  But  it:  was  his 
room,  your  chambre  a  coucher.  He  used  to  sleep 
there.  And  the  little  room  with  the  cupboard — it 
was  the  toy-cupboard  of  le  petit,  our  little  one  whom 
we  lost.  Mon  mari,  I — sometimes  the  one,  some- 
times the  other,  sometimes  the  two — used  to  go  to 
the  cupboard  to  look  at  his  little  horse.  It  was  all 
of  him  we  had  left.  One  must  have  something, 
m'sieur  le  capitaine.  C'etait  luij  C'etait  lui!' 

"As  I  mounted  the  stairs  I  heard  her  still  repeating 
her  litany  of  pain.  'C'etait  lui!  C'etait  lui!9 

"'Was  it  he?' I  said  to  myself. 

"The  next  day  I  went  back  to  my  billet  earlier 
than  usual,  determined  to  atone  for  all  my  un- 
charitableness  with  such  words  of  comfort  as  I  could 
offer  her.  I  thought  her  strangely  composed.  Per- 
haps she  divined  as  much  in  my  eyes. 

"'Ah,  m'sie'u'  le  capitaine,'  she  said  simply,  'there 
are  some  things  worse  than  death.  There  is  life. 
Had  he  lived  he  would  have  been  blind,'  and  she 
handed  me  a  letter.  It  ran  as  follows : 

"Chere  Madame, — Votre  mari  etait  mon  camarade  et 
avec  grande  douleur  f  ecris  pour  vous  announcer  qu'il  est  mort. 

II  etait  frappe  par  Y  eclat  d'un  obus  et  il  a  mis  les  doigts 
devant  les  yeux  pour  les  proteger  et  les  doigts  sont  brises  et  les 
yeux  rendus  aveugles.     II  est  mort  d  une  heure  et  demi 


102  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

apres  minuit  dans  la  poste  de  secours  le  mardi,  octobre  le 
troisieme.     .     ." 

"I  read  no  more.  I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall 
and  pretended  to  be  studying  the  crayon  drawing  of 
the  dead  child.  I  was  afraid  she  might  read  in  my 
face  all  that  I  had  seen  and  heard  on  the  night  of 
Tuesday,  October  the  3rd.  With  a  few  hasty  words 
of  condolence  I  left  the  room.  That  is  all." 

We  gazed  a  long  time  at  the  fire  while  the  rain 
beat  against  the  window  panes  and  the  ashes  fell 
softly  in  the  grate. 

"But,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Kennedy.  "I  know  what 
you're  going  to  say.  No!  I  can't  explain  it. 
Do  you  remember  those  words  of  Pascal,  'Les  e spaces 
infinis  m'effrayent?'  I  thought  of  them  to-night 
when  I  looked  up  at  the  moon  riding  the  heavens. 
The  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  heavenly  bodies 
are  not  more  removed  from  us  than  we  are  removed 
from  one  another.  If  each  of  us  is  separated  from 
one  another  by  such  vast  solitudes  in  life,  why 
should  there  bef  any  greater  separation  in  death? 
Sometimes  I  think  the  dead  are  nearer  to  us  than 
we  are  to  one  another.  You  know  those  lines  of 
Matthew  Arnold : 

Yea  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown. 

"Sometimes  I  can't  even  hear  the  echoes.  And  it's 
when  I'm  farthest  from  my  fellow  creatures  in  life 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  103 

that  I  feel  nearest  my  fellow  creatures  in  death. 
D'you  remember  the  old  regimental  mess? — where's 
the  C.O. ?  where's  the  major?  where  is  Guppy? 
and  Trelawney  and  Haig-Brown?  I  am  the  only 
one  left." 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  long  time.  At  last 
Kennedy  rose  to  go  home  to  his  billet.  "Perhaps 
you  understand  now  what  I  mean  by  'No  Man's 
Land,'"  he  said  quietly  as  he  bade  me  good-night. 
"Sooner  or  later  all  of  us  have  to  go  'over  the  top' 
and  sometimes  we  return." 


VII 

"HOT  AIR" 

E'  her  go ! "  said  the  Lieutenant. 
She  went.  At  one  moment  I  had  been 
looking  into  the  faces  of  the  men  around  the 
car;  at  the  next  I  was  looking  down  upon  their  heads 
and  could  study  the  parting  of  their  hair — they  had 
their  caps  off  and  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  Only 
a  drag-rope  now  anchored  us  to  earth  and  that  rope 
was  very  taut;  the  balloon  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
developed  a  personality  of  her  own  and  was  obviously 
impatient  to  be  off.  I  suddenly  felt  extraordinarily 
volatile;  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  under  my  feet, 
and  nothing  there  was  except  some  basket-work 
barely  an  inch  thick.  I  felt  that  I  was  made  of 
india-rubber,  and  that  I  might  bounce  at  any 
moment — which  is  a  nasty  sensation,  for  it  makes 
you  feel  a  wild  desire  to  bounce  over  the  side  of  the 
car  and  see  what  will  happen  to  you.  The  Lieu- 
tenant cast  off  the  rope.  We  rose  with  amazing 
rapidity;  the  earth  rushed  away  from  us;  the  white 
faces  of  the  crowd  looking  up  at  us  behind  the 
fence  lost  all  their  individual  features;  the  ecstatic 
shouts  of  the  children  died  away.  I  suddenly  felt 
very  queer. 

No!    I  didn't  like  this.     I  didn't  like  it  at  all.     I 

104 


"HOT  AIR"  105 

have  "proceeded" — in  the  Army  you  never  "go" 
anywhere  because  that  might  imply  you  came  to 
rest  somewhere,  and  there  is  no  rest  in  the  British 
army — to  some  objective  or  other  in  nearly  every 
form  of  transport  known  to  the  two  Services,  and 
of  all  of  them  I  liked  this  beastly  toy  the  least.  I 
have  flown  in  a  Maurice  Farman  in  a  3<>mile  gale 
at  six  thousand  feet  and  felt  nothing  but  a  surprising 
absence  of  feeling — except  when  the  bus  "bumped," 
or  when  she  began  to  volplane  down  and  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  descending  a  gigantic  staircase  with  a 
rather  long  leap  from  one  stair  to  the  next  and  no 
banisters  to  hang  on  to.  I  have  helped  to  steer  a 
tank,  looking  after  the  brakes  while  the  tank  com- 
mander performed  like  an  organist  with  his  hands 
and  feet,  peering  through  the  visor  as  though  he 
were  reading  a  piece  of  music,  and  have  reflected 
that  this,  too,  was  very  unsensational  except  at  the 
moment  when  we  came  to  a  crater  and  our  great 
leviathan  paused  irresolutely  on  the  edge,  as  though 
she  were  afraid  of  it,  until  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
it,  after  which  all  you  feel  is  that  it's  uncommonly 
like  flying  with  an  occasional  "bump."  I  have 
looked  on  in  a  submarine  while  it  submerged  in  the 
disciplinary  silence  that  is  the  rule  on  those  occasions, 
and  have  stood  by  the  coxswain  as  he  worked  the 
plane-controls  and  wondered,  as  I  watched  the  tell- 
tale bubble  and  the  pointer  of  the  depth-gauge, 
why  the  submarine  didn't  make  a  little  more  fuss 
about  it.  A  hunt  for  a  submarine  in  a  naval  drifter 
when  the  wind  began  to  freshen — yes!  this  was — • 


io6  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

this  was  uncommonly  like  that.  It  was  distinctly 
sensational.  There  was  the  same  feeling  in  the  pit 

of  my  stomach.  Was  I  going  to ?  I  looked 

over  the  side  of  the  car.  No,  it  would  be  too  dis- 
graceful. Another  outrage  upon  an  inoffensive  civil- 
ian population. 

I  looked  up  through  the  ring  into  the  open  neck 
of  the  balloon  and  saw  to  the  very  top  of  the  yellow 
interior — it  seemed  uncommonly  empty;  I  studied 
the  diagonals  of  rope-netting — the  ropes  seemed 
remarkably  thin;  I  looked  at  the  clothes-basket  in 
which  I  and  the  other  three  stood — it  was  desper- 
ately small.  I  looked  over  the  side,  which  reached 
no  higher  than  my  waist,  and  hastily  withdrew  my 
gaze.  I  looked  at  the  coil  of  rope  and  the  bags 
of  sand  at  our  feet  and  thought  I  had  better  sit 
down.  I  looked  at  my  three  companions  and  I 
thought  I  had  better  not.  For  all  three  of  them 
were  sitting  nonchalantly  on  the  edge  of  the  basket 
like  performing  monkeys  on  a  trapeze,  their  arms 
embracing  the  stays  overhead.  One  of  them  was 
swinging  a  long  leg  over  the  side. 

"It's — it's — a  fine  day/5  I  remarked,  desperately, 

"You'll  feel  better  in  a  moment,"  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant pointedly.  "It's  the  gas,  you  know.  It 
always  affects  one  a  bit  at  first." 

"I  rather  like  gas,"  I  said,  insincerely.  "But  I 
don't  like  it  quite  so  fresh  from  the  meter." 

"There's  the  river!"  said  the  Lieutenant,  whom  I 
will  call  the  pilot,  for  such  he  was.  The  other  two, 
each  wearing  a  single  *6pip"  on  their  sleeves,  were 


"HOT  AIR"  107 

"learning  the  ropes" — more  particularly  the  valve 
rope. 

I  began  to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  I  looked  over 
the  side.  I  saw  quadrangles,  polygons,  circles,  also 
buildings  leaning  back  at  various  angles  much  as  a 
house  appears  in  a  badly  focussed  photograph. 

"What  a  city  to  bomb!"  I  said  involuntarily. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  said  the  pilot.  "One  always  feels 
like  that  at  first."  So  this  was  sensation  Number 
Two. 

"We  did  bomb  her  the  other  day,"  he  resumed, 
"with  sandbags.  We'd  got  over  Battersea  and 
found  ourselves  suddenly  coming  down  and  likely  to 
get  a  cold  tub  in  the  river.  So  I  said  Toop  off  some 
ballast'  to  a  fellow  who  was  learning  the  ropes. 
And  before  I  knew  what  he  was  doing  the  silly  fool 
had  thrown  out  half  a  dozen  bags — bodily.  Of 
course,  you  should  always  shake  out  the  contents 
slowly — like  a  sower  going  forth  to  sow.  They 
landed  like  bombs  bang  on  the  skylight  of  a  factory 
or  workshop  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  saw 
them  go  through.  As  we  rose,  I  saw  a  crowd  of 
people  rushing  out  into  the  street  like  ants  when 
you've  kicked  over  an  ant-heap.  They  must  have 
thought  it  was  a  raid — broad  daylight,  too.  The 
last  I  saw  of  them  was  a  fat  man  shaking  his  fist 


at  us." 


We  rose  to  about  800  feet  and,  as  we  ascended, 
the  several  noises  of  London  were  merged  into  one 
diapason  hum,  but  out  of  it  certain  individual 
sounds  retained  their  identity.  They  were  cab 


io8      -  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

whistles.  The  whole  city  seemed  alive  with  them, 
and  one  could  hear  each  and  every  one. 

"The  whistling  for  a  cab,  the  barking  of  a  dog,  the 
crowing  of  a  cock,"  said  the  pilot  in  a  literary  style 
faintly  reminiscent  of  the  Book  of  Proverbs,  "these 
are  the  last  sounds  one  ceases  to  hear." 

As  we  travelled  over  the  north  of  London  a  dark 
mist  blotted  out  the  great  city,  but  the  white  trail 
of  smoke  from  railway  engines  showed  through  it 
clearly  like  streaks  of  cotton  wool.  It  was  raining 
below.  The  houses  were  invisible,  but  railway 
tracks  gleamed  through  the  mist  with  a  curious  effect 
as  though  we  were  gazing  at  their  reflection  in  water. 
My  destructive  mood  returned;  I  felt  at  that  mo- 
ment that  I  longed  of  all  things  to  drop  a  bomb  on 
that  railway  track.  Which  suggests  that  there's 
something  very  impersonal  about  bombing  a  city. 
I  think  of  all  lethal  enterprises  aerial  bombing  must 
be  the  least  demoralizing  to  the  character.  You 
don't  think  in  terms  of  men  but  of  targets,  especially 
structural  targets. 

Thus  meditating  I  took  out  my  cigarette  case. 

"Put  it  back,  please,"  said  the  pilot  hastily. 
"This  isn't  a  smoking  compartment."  And  he 
pointed  overhead.  There  was  nothing  to  see  over- 
head except  the  delicate  fabric  of  the  balloon.  And 
then  I  suddenly  remembered  that  gas.  I  had  no 
desire  to  go  up  to  heaven — or  down  to  earth — in  a 
chariot  of  fire  like  the  prophet.  So  I  put  it  back. 

"We  haven't  got  any  parachutes,  you  see,"  he  ex- 
plained apologetically.  He  spoke  as  though  it  were 


"HOT  AIR"  109 

the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  take  a  leap  out 
of  a  balloon  with  a  closed  umbrella  that  might  never 
open.  " If  anything  went  wrong  we  should  be  done." 

This  interlude  provoked  him  to  a  most  unfeeling 
strain  of  reminiscence:  "When  I  was  learning 

flying  at  the  W aerodrome — before  I  got  my 

transfer  to  the  Balloon  Wing — there  was  a  Russian 
chap,  a  learner.  He  went  'solo'  and  had  a  smash. 
They  took  up  seven  basketfuls.  The  difficulty  was 
to  bury  him." 

"Why  not  a  sack?"  I  said.  It  sounds  a  callous 
conversation,  but  after  all  there's  only  one  way  of 
looking  at  it  if  you  want  to  keep  your  nerve.  You 
must  laugh  at  it. 

"Oh!  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  the  Burial 
Service,  Rites  of  Holy  Church  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing.  You  see  a  Russian  can't  be  properly  buried 
without  incense  and  no  end  of  ritual.  Well,  they 
discovered  a  Russian  priest  in  the  uniform  of  a 
Canadian  padre.  At  least  he  said  he  was.  Perhaps 
he  was  anxious  to  oblige." 

"But  what  about  the  incense?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Some  bright  youth  said 
he'd  look  after  that — which  relieved  the  C.O. 
mightily  as  he  was  anxious  to  do  the  correct  thing 
and  impress  the  fellow  countrymen  of  the  deceased. 
Very  important  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  Russia 
just  then,  you  know!  .  .  .  There  was  a  great 
turn-out.  The  padre  chanted  away  like  a  gramo- 
phone— and  an  N.C.O.  duly  lighted  the  sacred  fire. 
Everybody  sniffed.  There's  something  very  famil- 


i  io  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

iar  about  that  smell/  whispered  the  C.O.tome.  'Very 
familiar.'  And  he  sniffed  like  a  fox-terrier.  'I  have  it, 
sir/  I  said,  'it's  tobacco.'  And  so  it  was.  The 
N.C.O.  had  also  contributed  some  packets  of  wood- 
bines— like  the  widow's  mite — which  was  rather 
decent  of  him  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  And 
before  the  padre  had  finished  I  heard  the  sergeant 
say  in  a  stentorian  voice — 'Collect  the  empties.' " 

"It  sounds  a  bit  blasphemous/'  I  remarked. 

"Well,  anyhow  it  was  a  good  brand,"  said  the 
pilot  piously.  "It  was  John  Cotton." 

The  air  seemed  fresher.  I  looked  at  the  aneroid; 
we  had  risen  to  3,000  feet.  The  little  red  bubble  in 
the  statoscope — looking  like  a  drop  of  coagulated 
blood  or  what  the  bacteriologists  call  a  "smear" — 
which  alternately  solidified  and  liquefied,  was 
crawling  to  the  right;  a  sure  sign  that  we  were  still 
ascending.  Periodically  one  of  the  learners  shook 
out  the  contents  of  a  sandbag  which  descended  like 
pepper.  We  had  a  steady  southeast  wind  behind  us, 
and  we  made  out  our  course  by  observation  of  the 
roads  and  railways,  checking  them  off  on  our  map 
with  the  aid  of  a  compass.  The  mist  had  cleared 
and  I  saw  that  we  had  left  the  city  far  behind  us. 
We  passed  over  woods  and  forests,  their  tops  looking 
like  a  bed  of  asparagus;  we  sailed  over  growing  crops 
of  cereals,  still  green  (it  was  early  August),  resem- 
bling, after  the  heavy  storms,  nothing  so  much  as  a 
cushion  of  green  plush  all  rubbed  the  wrong  way. 
"Barley,"  said  the  pilot.  "And  that's  corn";  he 
pointed  to  a  beaten  field;  I  seemed  to  be  looking 


"HOT  AIR"  in 

down  at  a  rough  plaster-cast  in  yellow  clay.  From 
far  below  us  came  a  continuous  hum  and  a  large 
beetle  appeared  to  be  racing  along  the  road  at  a 
tremendous  speed. 

"A  motorcyclist,"  said  the  pilot.  Again  I  felt 
that  lethal  instinct.  To  aim  a  bomb  at  a  rapidly 
moving  target— "short!";  "over!";  "hit!"  Undeni- 
ably there  was  a  sporting  element  in  it. 

"We're  beating  him,"  said  the  pilot.  Yet  our 
motion  was  imperceptible.  We  seemed  to  hang  in  the 
ether  like  a  lonely  planet. 

We  picked  out  one  feature  after  another  with  the 
aid  of  our  map.  It  was  like  doing  a  puzzle.  Aerial 
observation  has  a  fascination  of  its  own.  Introduce 
an  element  of  camouflage  into  it,  such  as  a  screened 
battery,  and  you're  back  at  the  old  nursery  game  of 
"Puzzle,  Find  the  Woodman."  There  is  much  to  be 
said  for  an  aerial  life.  It's  clean,  which  is  more  than 
you  can  say  of  the  trenches,  and  invigorating.  And  if 
you  get  "knocked  out" — well,  it's  all  over  in  no  time. 

"It's  about  tea-time,"  said  the  pilot,  and  he 
pulled  a  rope.  I  wondered  if  it  was  to  summon  the 
waiter.  Then  he  let  go.  There  was  a  loud  clap. 

"The  valve,"  he  explained.  It  may  have  been, 
but  more  of  that  later  on.  A  shower  of  tiny  chalk- 
like  crystals  descended  on  us  from  the  interior  of  the 
balloon,  as  though  some  chemical  change  was  going 
on  up  there.  Sometimes  the  valve-rope  catches. 
Then  you  climb  up  inside  the  ring.  At  least  you 
do  if  you  can  think  of  nothing  better.  Personally, 
I  would  rather  not. 


ii2  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

He  pulled  again  at  intervals,  and  one  of  the  others 
paid  out  some  300  feet  of  drag-rope.  As  we  de- 
scended, the  rope  touched  the  ground,  and  I  watched 
the  deep  furrow  it  made  in  the  grass — the  aftermath 
of  a  hayfield.  There  was  something  uncanny  about 
that  rope.  As  we  crossed  a  park  of  elms,  having 
thrown  out  ballast  to  clear  it,  the  rope  rose  from 
the  ground,  jumped  the  park  fence,  climbed  the 
trees,  and  followed  us  across  their  fan-like  tops  like 
an  animated  thing.  An  enormous  serpent  seemed 
to  be  following  us  with  diabolical  persistency,  hissing 
as  it  brushed  the  trees.  We  passed  a  gabled  manor- 
house  with  tall  chimneys  and  having  cleared  the 
park  threw  out  the  grapnel.  By  this  time  the 
smooth,  full  cheek  of  the  balloon  was  beginning  to 
crinkle  and  pucker  like  a  rubicund  countenance 
that  has  suddenly  been  stricken  with  senile  decay. 
The  pilot  pulled  the  "rip"  rope,  opening  a  panel  in 
the  top  of  the  balloon,  and  we  came  down  with  a 
bump. 

We  bounced,  bumped,  and  bounced  yet  again. 
I  found  my  head  and  shoulders  caught  in  a  snare  of 
collapsing  tackle  with  the  balloon  heaving  like  a 
wounded  bird  above  us. 

"Will  you  take  tea  or  coffee,  sir?" 

I  looked  up,  like  a  mouse  caught  in  a  trap,  and  I 
found  myself  staring  into  the  face  of  a  housemaid 
in  cap  and  ribbons  who  was  peering  over  the  car  in 
a  state  of  wide-eyed  excitement. 

"I  think  we'll  get  out  first,"  I  said,  struggling  like 
Samson  with  seven  green  withes.  I  was  not  yet 


"HOT  AIR"  113 

feeling  quite  terrestrial  and  I  had  a  vague  idea  that 
the  waiter  had  answered  the  bell. 

"Her  ladyship  saw  you  coming  over  the  park/' 
said  the  housemaid,  by  way  of  explanation.  "And 
she  sent  me  out  and  said,  she  said,  'If  they're  not 
Germans,  ask  them  whether  they'll  have  tea  or 
coffee?  But  if  they're  Germans,  send  for  the  police 
at  once.'" 

"Be  they  Germans  or  bain't  they?"  I  heard  a 
masculine  voice  behind  the  housemaid.  "Because 
if  they  be- 

"Put  that  gun  down,  you  silly  old  ass,"  shouted 
the  pilot,  with  his  head  in  a  noose.  "What  the  hell 
do  you  damned  well  mean  by 

"They  be  English  all  right,  Jarge,"  said  another 
voice  reassuringly.  "Cassn't  thee  tell  by  the  way 
they  talk?  That's  good  edicated  English." 

"Aye,  'tis,  Jacob;  depend  on  it,  'tis.  No  German 
Hun  could  talk  such  beautiful  English,  I'll  take  my 
gospel  oath  on  it.  The  gentleman  hev'  a  very 
proper  gift  of  speaking." 

A  number  of  heads  seemed  suddenly  to  appear 
from  nowhere  in  a  circle  around  us.  An  aged  man, 
holding  a  gun,  looked  over  the  side  of  the  basket 
as  though  he  were  inspecting  pigs  in  a  netted  cart. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
in  which  he  strove  manfully  to  conceal  his  dis- 
appointment. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  our  pilot,  politely,  as  we 
extricated  ourselves  and  clambered  out  of  the 
basket.  "Got  a  horse  and  cart  anywhere?  Good. 


ii4  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

You  men,  there,  you  can  help  us  flatten  her  out. 
No,  no,  like  this.  Start  at  each  end  and  roll  her 
up." 

They  all  set  to,  kneading  the  collapsed  balloon  as 
they  squeezed  the  gas  out  of  her  billowy  folds. 

"It  do  just  seem  like  holding  down  a  pig  at 
killing-time,"  said  one  of  them  pensively.  "What 
a  girt  chitterling  it  be!" 

"It's  the  way  mother  makes  dough,"  whispered 
one  child  to  another,  as  she  stood  looking  at 
us  with  a  finger  in  her  mouth.  The  men  rolled 
the  fabric  over  and  over,  crushing  the  pink  clover 
and  sulphur-coloured  toad-flax  beneath  it.  In  a 
few  ^minutes  our  balloon  was  packed  up  in  a  green 
canvas  hold-all  little  bigger  than  a  kit-bag,  to  the 
no  small  astonishment  of  those  who  had  witnessed 
her  descent.  Canvas  bag  and  basket  were  hoisted 

into  the  cart  with  directions  to  drive  to  H ,  the 

nearest  railway  station,  some  six  miles  away. 

"Thank  you,  madam,  we'll  take  tea,"  said  our 
pilot  as  we  entered  the  house. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  strong,"  she  said,  gra- 
ciously. "It's  been  waiting  some  time  for  you." 

I  remembered  that  the  pilot  had  pulled  a  myste- 
rious rope  about  "tea-time." 

I'm  not  in  the  R.F.C.  But  I  hear  that  their 
methods  of  aerial  communication  are  very  wonderful. 


VIII 

A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME 

I  WAS  engaged  in  studying  the  scheme  of  mural 
decoration  in  my  friend's  room  at  the  H.Q.  of 
the  th  Corps.  The  furniture  of  the  room 

was  designed  for  us  and  not  for  ornament.  It  con- 
sisted of  those  ascetic  deal  tables,  chairs,  and  chit- 
boxes  which  are  turned  out  daily  by  the  sappers  with 
no  other  assistance  than  a  hammer,  a  saw,  and  a 
plane.  The  south  wall  was  covered  by  one  of  those 
chefs  d'ceume  of  the  1st  Printing  Co.  R.E.,  in  which 
the  leading  principle  of  composition  is  a  gridiron  and 
the  mind  of  the  artist  seems  obsessed  by  an  enthu- 
siasm for  geometrical  design  which  may  be  helpful, 
but  is  certainly  monotonous.  None  the  less,  that 
map  was  an  unfailing  mental  stimulant  to  my  friend, 

Colonel  X ,  and  he  returned  to  its  contemplation 

again  and  again  with  the  same  feeling  of  proprietary 
pride  as  that  with  which  an  art  collector  might  return 
to  the  study  of  an  Old  Master.  And  as  is  the  way 
with  all  works  of  art,  the  more  one  looked  at  it  the 
more  one  saw  in  it.  Not  only  did  it  show  the  position 
of  every  culvert,  well,  quarry,  -and  ditch  behind  our 
lines,  but  it  also  bore  upon  it  certain  conventional 
signs  indicating  the  exact  location  of  our  trench  rail- 
ways, supply  dumps,  and  observation  posts. 


ii6  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

These  things  were  freely  and  boldly  figured  in 
somewhat  the  same  manner  as  the  maps  of  the  old 
voyagers  and  merchant  adventurers  body  forth  the 
fauna  and  flora  of  vague  continents  with  elephants 
standing  in  lagoons  and  negroes  reclining  under 
palm  trees.  Certain  coloured  lines  of  an  irregular 
tracery  indicated  the  course  to  the  nearest  decimals 
of  our  front  line  and  support  trenches,  and  they 
were  corrected  to  date.  From  all  of  which  it  may 
be  inferred  that  the  Germans,  who  are  great  col- 
lectors in  their  way,  would  have  put  their  last  shirt 
on  the  chances  of  adding  that  masterpiece  to  their 
collection. 

I  was  still  admiring  the  bold  freedom  of  its  nomen- 
clature and  weighing  the  uneasy  significance  of 
"Flea  Trench,"  "Acid  Drop  Copse,"  and/'Stink 
Alley,"  when  my  friend  the  Colonel  put^his  fore- 
finger on  a  point  in  one  of  the  rectangles,  and  said : 
"That's  Brigade  H.Q.;  Battalion  H.Q.  will  be 

about farther  on;  we'll  leave  the  car  behind  the 

wood."  The  point  may  be  described,  with  deliber- 
ate ambiguity,  as  A.2.c.b-3 — to  use  the  masonic 
language  of  operation  orders. 

"You  can  leave  that  behind,"  said  X ,  point- 
ing to  my  revolver,  a  Mark  VI  Webley,  which  is  a 
pretty  heavy  weapon.  "It  isn't  as  if  we  are  going 
up  by  night,  and  in  any  case  we  shall  have  a  guide. 
Besides,  it'll  be  heavy  going  and  we  must  travel  light 
when  we  get  beyond  that  obscene  wood.  But  you'd 
better  take  one  of  these."  And  he  handed  me  a 
shrapnel  helmet. 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  117 

"Also  this  nose-bag.  It's  the  new  pattern."  I 
took  the  canvas  bag  and  slung  it  over  my  right 
shoulder.  It  contained  one  of  the  new  gas  masks 
known  colloquially  as  "emus";  they  give  the  wearer 
the  appearance  of  a  passionate  attachment  to  a 
baby's  feeding-bottle.  I  have  heard  a  blunt  soldier 
describe  them  as  "slinging  your  guts  outside"; 
they  certainly  do  suggest  that  the  wearer  has  only 
remembered  at  the  last  moment  to  take  his  alimen- 
tary canal  with  him.  The  bag  also  contained  a 
field-dressing  and  some  morphia  tablets. 

Thus  equipped  we  entered  our  car,  taking  two 
other  officers  with  us,  one  of  whom  beguiled  our 
journey  by  telling  us  a  story  of  a  certain  divisional 
commander  and  a  gas-  helmet. 

It  was  a  good  tale,  and  some  day,  with  God's 
grace,  I  will  tell  it. 

Our  car  was  taking  us  through  undulating  country 
of  chalk  and  gravel  with  harebells  and  yellow  toad- 
flax still  in  bloom;  the  slopes  of  the  downs  were 
scarped  with  those  traces  of  primitive  husbandry 
which  in  the  south  of  England  are  known  as  "lyn- 
chets."  The  shocks  of  corn  were  still  bivouacked 
among  the  stubble,  but  the  sheaves  were  black  with 
rain.  Here  and  there  a  solitary  peasant  was  driving 
the  plough,  and  the  nodding  horses  left  a  gleaming 
ripple  of  brown  earth  behind  them.  A  slight  mist 
was  breaking  into  diaphanous  wreaths  under  the 
morning  sun  and  the  air  was  full  of  an  autumnal 
softness.  Small  parties  of  men  in  dust-coloured 
uniforms,  with  low  flat  heads,  projecting  ears,  and 


ii8  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

under-hung  mouths,  passed  us  at  intervals.  A 
peasant  paused  at  his  husbandry,  and,  regarding 
them,  spat  upon  the  ground.  They  were  German 
prisoners. 

As  we  approached  F we  were  caught  up  into 

the  tide  of  war,  an  interminable  procession  of  moun- 
ted men,  limbers,  lorries,  and  columns  of  infantry. 
One  has  the  impression  of  some  gigantic  power- 
house sending  out  steams  of  energy  and,  in  that 
great  current  of  men,  horses,  and  guns,  we  lost  all 
sense  of  our  own  identity.  And  as  we  mounted  the 
hill  ahead  of  us  where  four  or  five  other  roads  met 
our  own  at  acute  angles,  we  could  see  four  or  five 
processions  converging  upon  our  own,  the  tail  of  each 
procession  fading  away  into  the  distance  and  the 
mounted  men  diminishing  into  small  black  objects 
until  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  ant-heaps  in  the 
world  were  in  migration.  The  nearer  we  approached 
the  larger  the  figures  became  until  they  resolved  them- 
selves into  thousands  upon  thousands  of  mounted 
men,  each  man  carrying  panniers  of  shells  on 
either  side  of  his  saddle,  as  though  the  baskets  were 
huge  holsters.  And  before  and  behind  the  horse- 
men came  and  went  batteries  in  column  of  route, 
their  teams  straining  at  the  traces  as  the  wheels 
sank  into  the  mud  and  their  drivers  raising  their 
short  whips  to  the  salute  as  we  passed.  Upon  the 
heels  of  the  guns  followed  huge  motor-lorries.  The 
multitude  and  variety  of  heraldic  symbols  upon  the 
tail-boards  of  those  lorries  told  me  that  nothing  less 
than  an  army  was  on  the  move,  for  each  division, 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  119 

and  each  supply  column  within  a  division,  has  its 
own  device.  Here  was  the  fish,  the  butterfly,  the 
cat  within  the  circle,  the  greyhound  rampant,  the 
thistle,  the  shamrock,  the  three  legs,  and  the  inverted 
horseshoe.  As  all  these  processions  converged  upon 
the  cross-roads  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  but  inextri- 
cable confusion  awaited  us.  But  at  the  meeting  of 
the  ways  was  a  road  control  of  the  M.P.,  and  the 
columns  of  men  and  horses  and  guns  writhed  in  and 
out  with  the  rhythm  of  gun-teams  in  a  musical  ride 
and  so  went  their  appointed  ways. 

On  the  sky-line  funnels  of  black  smoke  uprose 
from  the  earth,  expanded  into  voluminous  bouquets, 
and  then  disappeared.  They  were  German  8-inch 
shells.  As  we  turned  sharply  to  the  left  in  their 
direction  we  passed  our  own  "heavies,"  each  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  next,  and  with  not  so  much  as 
a  fig-leaf  to  hide  their  nakedness,  firing  at  a  few 
paces  over  our  heads — we  felt  the  shock  as  we  passed. 

"They  might  be  firing  salutes  in  Hyde  Park,"  said 
the  Colonel  contemplatively,  "for  all  the  trouble  they 
take  to  hide  their  light  under  a  bushel.  The  fact  is 
the  Hun  has  given  up  spotting.  His  flying  men 
never  come  over  here  for  a  change  of  air  now.  Our 
own  fellows  drop  cards  on  'em  every  day,  but  they 
never  return  the  calls.  Beastly  impolite,  I  call  it. 
There's  the  wood;  let's  get  out/' 

He  pointed  to  what  looked  like  a  row  of  gibbets  on 
the  sky-line  about  a  mile  away — things  that  looked 
like  everything  but  a  tree:  gaunt,  twisted  and  bare, 
and  resembling  not  so  much  a  wood  as  a  scaffolding 


120  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

in  collapse.  To  reach  it  we  had  to  pass  on  foot 
through  what  had  once  been  a  village,  but  was  now 
merely  a  muddy  waste  with  here  and  there  a  patch 
of  brick  and  stone  embedded  in  the  mud.  There 
was  not  so  much  as  a  gable-end  left  standing,  and  I 
saw  nothing  to  convince  me  that  the  place  had  ever 
contained  a  living  thing  except  a  woman's  red  flannel 
petticoat  trampled  in  the  mud,  a  child's  wax  doll,  and 
the  leg  of  a  dead  German  projecting  from  the  wall 
of  a  communication  trench.  Truly  our  guns  grind 
exceeding  small.  ' 

We  entered  the  wood,  and  as  we  entered  it,  we 
seemed  to  leave  all  life  behind  us.  Whether  it  was 
one  of  those  tricks  of  acoustics  by  which  the  con- 
figuration of  the  ground  or  the  relative  density  of  the 
atmosphere  creates  a  "pocket"  I  know  not,  but  once 
in  that  wood  we  seemed  as  isolated  from  all  auditory 
intercourse  as  a  signaller  whose  wires  are  suddenly 
cut.  And  we  were  quite  alone.  We  knew  the  guns 
were  speaking,  for  behind  us  we  could  see  orange 
flashes  of  flame  and  in  front  of  us  brooding  black 
clouds.  But  in  the  wood  itself  there  was,  or  seemed 
to  be,  a  deep  and  sepulchral  silence.  It  was — or 
had  been — a  wood  of  fir  and  beech.  I  recognized 
the  trees  by  their  trunks  as  an  anatomist  might 
recognize  some  extinct  mammal  by  a  bone,  for  these 
were  mere  skeletons  of  trees  to  which  not  one  leaf 
adhered.  Some  were  cut  clean  at  the  base  as  though 
by  a  woodman's  saw;  others  were  rudely  pollarded 
at  the  top;  many  were  shivered  as  by  a  blast  of  light- 
ning. It  was  October,  and  in  the  valleys  below  the 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  121 

beeches  and  poplars  were  still  in  full  leaf;  yet  in  this 
stricken  wood  not  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  of  grass  nor 
even  a  patch  of  moss  appeared.  Our  progress  was 
slow  and  painful,  for  the  ground  was  scooped  and 
moulded  into  circular  pits  of  a  surprising  symmetry, 
so  close  that  one  could  leap  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  so  deep  that  they  reached  to  our  shoulders  as 
we  stumbled  into  them.  They  were  shell-holes,  and 
from  each  of  them  as  we  slid  into  it  there  arose 
an  angry  hum,  swelling  into  a  diapason  as  clouds 
of  large  black  flies  rose  in  agitation.  They  rose 
from  shrapnel  helmets,  and  as  they  rose  I  saw  that 
these  helmets,  upturned  like  a  pudding-basin,  were 
full  to  the  brim  and  dreadful  to  look  upon.  The 
wood  was  a  shambles:  dark  crimson  masses  of  pulp 
lay  on  all  sides  of  us,  and  what  at  first  sight  looked 
like  sea-shells — white  concave  objects  half  em- 
bedded in  the  ground,  their  gleaming  surface  still 
covered  with  a  thin  integument  of  blue  and  red  veins. 
They  were  skulls. 

We  groped  our  way  amid  an  immense  litter  of 
broken  rifles,  bayonets,  kit,  pickaxes,  spades,  gas- 
masks, field-dressings,  Lewis  gun  cylinders,  Mills 
bombs,  and  cotton  wool,  with  here  and  there  a  packet 
of  cigarettes.  A  peculiar  sickly  smell  suffused  the 
wood. 

"Fifty  thousand  dead  here,  I  should  think,"  said 
the  Colonel  meditatively  as  we  dropped  with  a 
splash  into  a  disused  communication  trench.  "  Don't 
lose  sight  of  me  whatever  you  do  or  we  may  never 
find  each  other  again."  And  we  wormed  our  way 


122  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

between  the  sticky  walls  of  the  trench,  brushing 
against  ghastly  objects  and  obscene  which  pro- 
truded like  the  roots  of  a  tree. 

The  soft  porous  mud  clung  to  our  boots  like  treacle, 
and  we  were  glad  when  the  trench  debouched  upon 
the  open  ground.  Our  way  to  Brigade  H.Q.  lay 
across  a  slope  covered  with  strands  of  rusty  field 
telephones  and  pitted  with  shell-holes.  As  we  came 
in  view  of  a  low  ridge,  some  six  feet  high,  khaki- 
clad  figures  gradually  detached  themselves  from  the 
brown  background  and  the  holes  of  the  Brigade  dug- 
out appeared. 

At  about  a  hundred  yards  distance  from  our 
objective  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  khaki-clad  figure 
crouching  in  one  of  the  shell-holes  with  his  rifle  in 
his  left  hand  and  gazing  fixedly  toward  the  ridge. 
One  does  not  usually  do  outpost-duty  in  the  rear.  As 
we  came  up  to  him  I  turned  to  ask  him  what  he  was 
doing  there,  but  as  I  opened  my  lips  to  speak  I  saw 
that  his  body  was  strangely  rigid,  the  hair  under  his 
helmet  thick  with  flies,  and  his  ears  black  as  ebony. 
He  was  dead. 

The  brigadier  greeted  us  at  the  entrance  of  the 
dug-out,  where  sat  a  sapper  under  a  tarpaulin  with 
the  receiver  of  a  telephone  at  his  ear  and  a  kitten 
between  his  feet.  "You  want  to  get  on  to  Battalion 
H.Q.?  Right,  you'll  want  a  guide.  Here,  can 
you  read  a  map?"  he  added,  as  he  turned  to  a  man 
wearing  the  blue  and  white  brassard  of  the  signallers. 

"No,  zur,  but  I  knows  the  way." 

I  knew  that  accent,  and  I  turned  to  look  at  the 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  123 

Speaker.  He  was  a  well-built  youth,  with  a  broad, 
homely  face,  honest  gray  eyes,  straw-coloured  hair, 
and  a  large,  good-natured  mouth.  He  carried  as  his 
only  weapon  a  long  staff  about  five  feet  in  length. 
You  can — you  could — see  many  such  as  he  keeping 
sheep  in  Pewsey  Vale.  My  surmise  turned  out  to 
be  correct — we  came  from  the  same  county  and 
from  that  moment  my  guide  became  colloquial. 
He  was  shy  at  first,  which  was  not  surprising,  for 
he  was  a  private  and  I  was  a  "  brass  hat."  But  that 
wore  off,  as  you  shall  hear. 

We  topped  the  ridge,  the  signaller  doing  a  pole- 
jump  and  stopping  to  give  me  a  hand.  A  sequence 
of  H.E.  shells  were  falling  again  and  again  in  a  cloud 
of  earth  and  black  smoke  upon  a  corner  of  a  road 
about  four  hundred  yards  to  our  left,  while  at  some- 
thing the  same  distance  on  our  right  5.9  "univer- 
sals"  were  bursting  into  low  clouds  of  snow-white 
fleece.  The  ground  we  were  crossing  was  a  perfect 
snare  of  wire,  and  as  I  studied  my  steps  I  noticed 
that  the  clay  in  the  shell-holes  we  skirted  was  black 
and  the  clods  newly  turned.  The  Colonel  called 
over  his  shoulder,  "Watch  me,  and  do  as  I  do." 

"There's  a  girt  big  church  over  there,  zur,"  our 
guide  remarked  to  me  confidentially,  as  he  pointed 
with  his  staff  at  a  spire  peeping  out  between  the 
trees  on  a  wooded  ridge  about  four  miles  to  our  left. 
"It  be  a  mortal  big " 

There  was  a  sibilant  hiss  in  the  air  ahead  of  us. 
The  Colonel  had  disappeared.  The  next  moment  I 
saw  him  lying  flat  on  the  earth  a  few  yards  in  front 


I24  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

of  me  and  pulling  his  helmet,  which  hitherto  he  had 
carried  in  his  hand  like  a  bucket,  over  the  nape  of  his 
neck.  I  dropped,  and  as  I  heard  a  dull  thud  and 
the  patter  of  falling  stuff  all  around  me  I  was  dis- 
agreeably conscious  of  having  the  largest  spine  of  all 
vertebrate  beings.  "It  be  as  big  as  Zaulsbury 
Cathedral,  zur,  I  do  think."  ...  I  looked  up 
from  under  my  shrapnel  helmet  as  a  tortoise  looks 
out  from  under  its  shell  and  saw  the  signaller  looking 
down  at  me.  He  had  remained  upright  and  had 
never  moved.  I  saw  the  Colonel  rising  to  his  feet. 
The  Colonel  now  broke  into  a  quick  trot.  He  has  a 
cool  head — incidentally  he's  a  V.C. — and  never 
runs  without  a  purpose.  What  is  more,  he  knows 
the  whole  octave  of  shell-music  and  the  compass  of 
all  the  diabolical  instruments  that  produce  its  weird 
harmonies.  Wherefore,  when  he  ran  I  ran.  The 
air  overhead  was  now  producing  the  strangest 
orchestral  effects,  in  which  were  blended  sounds  like 
the  crack  of  gigantic  whips,  the  pulsations  of  enor- 
mous wings,  the  screams  of  frightened  birds,  and, 
more  often  than  not,  a  reptilian  hiss. 

"They  do  say  as  Zaulsbury  spire  be  the  girtest 
spire  in  Hengland,"  continued  the  signaller  imper- 
turbably,  "parson  told  I  so.  ...  It  be  all 
right,  zur,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  as  he  waited 
for  me  to  rise  again,  my  attention  having  been 
diverted  by  the  Colonel  again  prostrating  himself  like 
a  Moslem  in  prayer.  The  Colonel's  posture  was 
sacred,  but  his  language  was  profane.  "He  hev  only 
caught  his  foot  in  a  wire,  zur,"  my  guide  added  with- 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  125 

out  the  suspicion  of  a  smile,  as  I  rose  to  my  feet. 
"Churches  do  seem  to  come  natural  like  to  me.  My 
feyther  he  be  sexton.  He  be  a  hancient  man  and 
zays  as  he  hev  a  buried  the  whole  parish  in  his  time. 
The  only  thing  that  do  worrit  'un  is  that  he  won't 
be  able  to  bury  hisself  when  'a  turns  up  his  toes. 
He  can't  a-bear  the  idea  of  being  buried  by  zum- 
m'un  else.  It  do  make  'un  quite  low-spirited  at 
times.  But  he  be  getting  childish.  He  do  worry 
about  my  not  getting  Christian  burial  out  here. 
Not  that  he  ain't  a  very  good  feyther  to  me,"  he 
added  apologetically,  "but  you  see,  zur,  it  be  his 
profession.  But  I  tell  'un  'what  mun  be  mun 
be.'  .  .  .  And  anyhow  I  ain't  dead  yet,"  he 
added  cheerfully  as  a  shell  hissed  overhead.  "This 
be  the  communication  trench.  It  be  all  we  'ave 
at  present."  He  spoke  like  a  host  apologizing  for 
an  indifferent  hospitality. 

It  was  barely  eighteen  inches  wide,  it  was  not  more 
than  five  feet  deep,  and  it  was  not  traversed.  It 
had  been  hurriedly  thrown  up,  for  we  had  only  just 
captured  the  ground.  As  I  looked  over  it  to  my 
left  I  saw  four  figures  marching  in  a  direction  par- 
allel with  our  own,  but  toward  our  rear.  They  were 
marching  over  the  open  ground  as  steadily  as  if 
they  were  doing  stretcher  drill  in  a  training  camp. 
As  they  drew  nearer  I  saw  that  they  bore  a  stretcher 
high  upon  their  shoulders;  the  feet  of  the  patient 
were  bare  except  for  the  white  bandages,  the  loose 
ends  of  which  fluttered  in  the  air. 

"That  poor  chap's  got  it  bad,"  said  the  signaller 


126  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

as  he  drew  my  attention  to  the  red  label.  "And 
'ere  be  the  walking  cases,"  he  added  as  men  in  twos 
and  threes  with  white  labels  depending  from  their 
buttonholes  began  to  squeeze  past  us,  some  of  them 
very  pale,  and  one,  whose  lips  were  blue  with  cyano- 
sis and  his  face  livid,  muttering  with  trance-like 
repetitions  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy,  "Been'* buried 
three  times  this  morning — three  times  I  been  buried 
— it's  me  chest." 

;  "That  fellow  looks  pretty  bad,"  I  remarked  over 
my  shoulder  to  the  signaller.  I  got  no  answer.  I 
looked  back.  The  signaller  had  dropped  behind; 
he  was  loosing  the  straps  and  braces  of  the  man  with 
the  blue  lips.  "They  do  hinder  'spiratory  haction; 
it  be  the  fust  thing  to  do,  zur,"  he  said  to  me  a 
moment  later  as  he  panted  after  me,  lifting  his  feet 
in  the  mud. 

We  found  the  Battalion  H.Q.  in  a  dark  dug-out. 
It  had  no  boarding,  merely  a  few  pit-props  to  hold 
up  the  roof;  the  floor  and  the  walls  were  of  the  earth 
earthy.  The  O.C.,  with  three  days'  growth  of 
beard  and  a  huge  and  indecent  hole  in  his  breeches, 
sat  on  an  oil-tin  studying  a  trench-map  with  the  aid  of 
a  pungent  tallow  "dip"  stuck  in  a  bottle.  My 
friend  discussed  with  him  the  strengthening  of  the 
position;  there  was  talk  of  strong  posts  and  saps  and 
how  to  consolidate. 

"Yes,  it's  pretty  lively  just  now,"  said  the  O.C.  to 
us.  "I  lost  ten  per  cent,  of  my  stretcher-bearers 
yesterday." 

I  left  the  O.C.  and  my  friend  engaged  over  the  map 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  127 

in  that  dark  hole,  like  two  conspirators,  and  dragged 
my  feet  along  the  trench,  carrying  about  three 
pounds  of  ochreous  mud  upon  each  of  them.  The 
men  not  on  lookout  duty  were  sitting  down  in  the 
mud  stolidly  eating  bully  beef  as  though  it  were  an 
occupation  rather  than  a  meal.  But  as  I  elbowed 
my  way  round  a  traverse  I  hear  the  cheerful  sound 
of  animated  chatter  and  loud  laughter.  The  sound 
is  not  so  common  in  the  trenches  as  to  be  unnotice- 
able.  It  is  only  in  the  music-halls  that  life  in  the 
trenches  appears  to  be  one  uproarious  farce.  That 
is  a  stage  convention  the  imperiousness  of  which  all 
soldiers  cheerfully  acknowledge.  It  would  never  do 
to  allow  the  civilian  to  feel  depressed. 

"He-he-he!"  "Haw-Haw-haw.  It  do  do  a  bloke 
good  to  have  the  likes  of  you  to  talk  to,"  said  one  of 
these  voices.  "Whose  'elmet  did  you  say  it  was, 
mate?"  chuckled  another.  "Blimey,  if  the  orficer 
'ad  a  pinched  mine,  wouldn't  I  'ave  copped  it? 
Not  arf!  Why  I  uses  mine  ter.  .  .  ."  (The 
speaker  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper  and  I  could 
not  hear  the  rest.)  "Well,  so  long,  young  feller, 
and  thanks  for  the  Woodbines."  As  I  came  round 
the  traverse  I  ran  into  the  signaller. 

"I  hope  you  and  the  Colonel  ain't  been  kep* 
waiting,  zur.  It  do  cheer  the  chaps  up  to  talk  to 
'em  a  bit  and  pass  the  time  o'  day." 

It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  ran  greater 
risks  than  they.  Every  day  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
crossing  the  ground  between  Brigade  H.Q.  and  the 
first-line  trenches,  and  everyone  knows  that,  except 


128  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

when  the  enemy  are  about  to  attack,  such  ground  is 
infinitely  more  unhealthy  than  the  front  line  itself. 

As  I  rejoined  the  Colonel  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Battalion  dug-out  I  heard  a  low  droning  hum  over- 
head and  instantly  every  face  in  the  trench  was 
turned  skyward.  One  of  our  biplanes  was  returning 
from  her  reconnaissance,  flying  straight  as  a  crow. 
A  number  of  woolly  skeins,  black  as  ink,  suddenly 
appeared  one  after  the  other  around  her  and  she 
changed  her  course  to  a  series  of  giddy  spirals,  like 
a  snipe.  Every  eye  followed  her.  "Time  to  get 
back,"  said  the  Colonel,  "we'll  do  the  whole  way 
back  across  the  open.  It's  quicker.  That  com- 
munication trench  was  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  It 
doubles  the  time  without  halving  the  risks.  We're 
within  machine-gun  range,  of  course,  but  I  doubt  if 
the  Hun'll  think  it  worth  while."  And  without 
another  word  he  clambered  out  of  the  trench. 

The  signaller  and  I  followed.  As  we  gained  the 
open  a  small  black  shell  about  six  inches  long  fell 
vertically  and  without  noise  about  five  yards  in 
front  of  me,  as  the  hum  of  the  aeroplane  grew  more 
distinct.  "A  dud,"  said  the  Colonel  dispassion- 
ately, "they'll  never  hit  her,"  and  we  hurried  on. 

"It  do  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  a  chap,  zur,  when 
he  do  see  what  warfare  really  is,"  ruminated  my 
guide.  "There  ain't  much  room  for  pride  and  vain- 
glory out  here.  And  it  do  seem  as  though  one  be- 
comes like  a  little  'un  again,  a  hearing  of  the  collects 
and  the  catechism.  Them  things  do  kind  o'  come 
back  to  one.  Every  marning  as  I  goes  over  the  top 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  129 

of  the  ridge  I  thinks  o'  them  words,  'Defend  us  thy 
humble  servants." 

His  speech  was  good  homespun  English;  he  often 
spoke  dialect  but  never  slang — and  between  the  two 
there  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  It  was  a 
well  of  English  undefiled  in  which  there  were  no 
impurities.  He  was  an  unlettered  man  and  his  speech 
had  no  literary  quality,  but  he  used  naturally  and 
unaffectedly  the  diction  of  the  Bible,  for  it  was  the 
only  diction  he  knew.  And  there  is  none  better. 
There  are  combes  and  uplands  in  Wiltshire  in  which 
men  still  talk  as  he  talked,  and  I  recognized  his 
speech  and  felt  as  I  walked  something  of  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  air  off  the  Wiltshire  chalk.  Also  that 
he  and  I  were  of  the  same  folk. 

All  this  time  his  eyes  were  always  on  duty,  and  now 
and  again  he  called  to  the  Colonel,  "Bear  to  the 
right,  zur" — "Mind  thuck  maze  o'  wire,  zur."  The 
Colonel  had  a  theory,  which  was  largely  sound,  that 
if  you  have  to  go  through  a  "strafing"  the  simplest 
and  safest  plan  is  to  get  through  it  as  quickly  as 
possible.  He  did  not  fear  shells — barring  the  sig- 
naller, I  think  he  is  about  the  most  fearless  man  I 
know — but  he  respected  them.  His  trained  ear 
seemed  to  have  the  most  extraordinary  acoustic 
properties,  and  to  watch  him  waiting  for  an  8-inch 
shell  to  burst  was  like  watching  a  setter  point.  My 
throat  was  parched  and  there  was  a  painful  stitch  in 
my  side;  also  at  times  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  beaten  all 
over.  I  was  feeling  something  of  the  same  fear  as  I 
felt  when  I  first  flew  over  London  in  a  Maurice 


i3o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Farman  and  we  occasionally  got  into  a  "pocket" 
and  dropped  like  a  stone  only  to  pull  up  with  a 
sudden  luxurious  security  and  find  ourselves  "as 
you  were."  It  was  the  same  after  each  explosion; 
the  feeling  of  relief  was  only  equalled  by  the  tension 
which  had  preceded  it.  And  always  there  was  an 
exultant  feeling  that  we  had  scored  again.  It  was 
absurdly  like  a  game. 

Meanwhile  the  signaller  continued  to  talk,  and  the 
more  vigorous  the  strafing  the  more  animated  he 
became,  until  I  found  myself  elaborating  a  theory  of 
sympathetic  connection,  which  I  am  sure  is  totally 
devoid  of  scientific  support,  between  brain-waves 
and  shell  trajectories.  As  we  glanced  toward  our 

right  at  the  churchyard  of  G where  the  Hun 

shells  were  busy  at  their  ghoulish  task,  his  talk  took 
a  fresh  direction.  It  was  occasionally  interrupted, 
but  never  seriously  disturbed,  by  the  necessity  of 
lying  flat  in  the  mud,  nor  was  it  discountenanced  by 
the  fact  that  I  now  rarely  returned  any  answer,  my 
whole  attention  being  earnestly  concentrated  on  the 
Colonel  in  front  whose  premonitory  symptoms  had 
an  almost  hypnotic  effect  upon  me.  But  the  sig- 
naller never  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"  .  .  .  It  do  seem  to  I  as  the  ancient  Britons 
were  god-fearing  men  in  a  manner  of  speakin' 
.  .  .  though  parson  do  call  'em  heathens  as  wor- 
shipped graven  images.  They  did  some  tidy  bury- 
ing in  them  barrows  up  on  the  Downs,  which  do 
seem  a  Christian  thing  to  do — I  allers  buries  a  poor 
chap  if  I  'as  time  and  an  entrenching  tool.  .  .  . 


A  DAY  ON  THE  SOMME  131 

Do  seem  to  lie  easier  like,"  he  added,  as  we 
passed  a  grave  in  the  open  with  a  wooden  cross. 
"I  ain't  up  in  the  burial  service  like  feyther,  what 
can  say  it  backward,  but  I  do  say  the  Lord's  Prayer 
as  the  next  best  thing.  D'you  think  it  matters, 
zur?" 

But  by  this  time  we  had  gained  the  ridge  and  the 
comparative  security  (it  was  very  comparative)  of 
Brigade  H.Q.  Our  way  back  was  now  clear  and  our 
guide's  task  was  done.  He  abruptly  ceased  to 
talk  and  his  whole  bearing  changed.  He  and  I  were 
no  longer  two  wayfaring  West-country  men  but 
private  and  officer,  and  he  stood  sharply  at  atten- 
tion. He  was  quite  incapable  of  presumption. 
Had  his  friendly  musings  been  designed  to  beguile 
my  attention  from  the  dangers  which  beset  us 
or  were  they  merely  the  naive  speculations  of  a 
mind  as  simple  as  it  was  brave?  I  shall  never 
know. 

The  signaller  saluted  us  and  my  superior  officer 
returned  his  salute.  He  stood  looking  after  us, 
holding  his  stake  as  though  it  were  a  quarter-staff; 
the  sun  fell  upon  his  cheerful,  homely  face  and 
glinted  on  the  brass  letters  of  his  shoulder  straps. 
There  came  into  my  mind  that  feeling  of  perplexed 
recognition  which  sometimes  attends  the  casual 
encounters  of  life.  Surely,  I  speculated,  I  had  met 
him  somewhere  before.  And  in  a  flash  I  remembered 
the  first  book  I  had  ever  read.  I  saw  once  again  the 
Hill  Difficulty  and  the  Ground  of  Enchantment,  the 
thunderbolt  that  smote  Mr.  Not-right,  and  the 


i32  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

snares,  pits,  traps,  and  gins  over  which  the  stout- 
hearted guide  took  the  pilgrims  with  fortifying 
discourse.  And  then  I  knew  that  I  had  met  our 
signaller  before. 

His  name  was  Mr.  Greatheart. 


IX 

THE  HUSBANDMEN 

THE  Musketry  Inspection  Officer  of  a  Home 
Command  was  sitting  in  his  room  at  Head- 
quarters turning  over  a  file  of  that  feuilleton 
literature  with  which  the  War  Office  thoughtfully 
beguiles  the  little  leisure  we  have  by  providing  us 
with  material  for  light  reading.  Of  the  making  of 
Army  Council  Instructions  there  is  no  end,  and 
much  learning  of  them  hath  made  many  a  "brass 
hat"  mad.  The  room  in  which  the  officer  sat  was 
superbly  appointed.  It  contained  a  deal  table 
with  an  improvised  penholder  of  corrugated  brown 
paper,  a  pad  of  fawn-coloured  paper  such  as  grocers 
use  to  wrap  up  Demerara  sugar  and  the  Stationery 
Department  issues  for  writing  inter-departmental 
"chits,"  a  copy  of  the  Army  List,  two  uncomfort- 
able chairs,  and  a  telephone. 

The  scheme  of  mural  decoration  was  the  harvest  of 
a  dutiful  eye.  Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  diagram 
of  the  Lewis  machine-gun,  resembling  in  its  struc- 
tural complication  a  naval  architect's  plan  of  a  sub- 
marine. It  was  flanked  by  a  list  of  landscape  tar- 
gets, a  table  of  the  number  of  men  under  training 
for  drafts,  a  roll  of  range  superintendents,  and  the 
plan  of  a  Solano  target.  These  artistic  efforts  were 

133 


i34  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

all  in  black  and  white,  but  a  touch  of  colour  was 
afforded  by  a  map  of  rifle  and  field-firing  ranges 
picked  out  in  violet  ink,  and  a  large-scale  ordnance 
map  showing  the  rifle  ranges  on  a  vast  tableland 
which  has  been  the  training  ground  of  troops  ever 
since  primitive  man  hammered  out  his  arrowheads 
of  flint  and  the  Roman  Legionary  practised  the 
throw  of  his  javelin.  On  that  ordnance  map  par- 
allelograms of  yellow  marked  the  location  of  the 
classification  ranges  with  their  "danger  areas," 
while  similar  geometrical  designs  in  drab  showed  the 
field-firing  ranges,  each  range  within  the  parallel- 
ogram being  marked  in  blocks. 

It  was  the  room  of  a  man  whose  only  distraction 
was  his  work — and  a  tin  of  tobacco. 

The  officer  was  turning  over  an  A.C.I,  as  to  the 
use  of  drill  purpose  and  emergency  rifles,  when  the 
telephone  rang  at  his  elbow.  He  took  down  the 
receiver. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  Range-warden  of  No.  27,  sir.  I  rang  up  to  ask  if 
I  can  change  from  G  range  to  A  and  B." 

"That's  for  the  Musketry  Officer.     Ask  him." 

He  put  back  the  receiver  and  resettled  himself  to 
his  work  when  the  telephone  rang  again. 

"Damn  it!"  said  the  officer  wearily,  "I  might  as 
well  be  in  R.E.  Signals  as  a  staff-officer  third  grade. 
Well,  what  is  it?  Who  are  you?  .  .  .  John 
Leighfield  of  Littlecote  Farm!  Fm  afraid  it  doesn't 
convey  anything  to  me,  Mr.  Leighfield.  .  .  . 
Farm  six  hundred  acres,  do  you?  I  congratulate 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  135 

you — I  wish  I  did.  .  .  .  Short  of  labour? 
Yes,  so  am  I.  ...  Oh!  I  see.  Well,  you  must 
apply  to  the  C.O.  of  the  nearest  Depot.  He'll  supply 
you  with  men;  there's  a  new  Army  Council  instruc- 
tion to  that  effect.  .  .  .  What?  suspend  field- 
firing  for  fourteen  days!  It  can't  be  done.  There's 
a  war  on.  Where  are  you  situated?  .  .  .  Lyd- 
iard  Deverill?  Wait  a  minute." 

He  put  the  receiver  on  the  table  and  rose  and 
studied  the  map.  Then  he  returned  to  the  telephone. 

"We'll  give  you  six  days.  Right  oh!  Good- 
bye." 

He  rang  off.  Then  he  returned  to  the  map  and 
stuck  a  small  flag  in  one  of  the  parallelograms. 

The  sun  was  at  its  meridian  and  the  foreheads  of 
the  toilers  of  the  field,  stooping  among  the  bronze- 
coloured  grain,  glistened  with  sweat.  The  wheatfield 
was  bordered  with  a  hedge  wreathed  with  bryony 
like  a  vine,  and  the  field  itself  was  brilliant  with  a 
pageantry  of  purples,  blues,  reds,  and  golden  tints, 
where  knapweed,  cornflowers,  poppies,  and  yellow 
ox-eye  gleamed  among  the  yellow  •  stalks.  The 
grain  drooped  with  a  "swan's  neck" — a  sure  sign 
that  the  wheat  was  ripe.  Some  days  before,  the 
farmer,  having  anxiously  considered  the  heavens, 
had  surveyed  his  ten-acre  field  and  sampled  the 
ears  of  wheat,  plucking  a  stalk  here  and  there,  and 
rubbing  the  grain  between  the  palms  of  his  hands 
like  two  millstones,  to  test  its  quality,  for  he  feared 
it  might  be  milky  in  the  ear  or  stained  by  the  recent 


i36  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

rains.  He  had  found  the  grain  hard  and  firm;  a  day 
or  two  more  and  it  would  shed  itself.  The  experi- 
ment was  decisive,  and  without  further  hesitation 
he  had  given  orders  for  the  field  to  be  "opened"  by 
hand  with  the  bagging-hook,  to  cut  a  track  for  the 
"binder." 

The  workers  were  stooping  to  their  task,  each 
holding  the  wheat  back  and  away  from  him  with  his 
left  hand  while  he  cut  in  with  his  right.  The  man 
nearest  the  hedge,  a  sinewy  labourer  of  middle  age, 
named  Daniel  Newth,  having  progressed  a  few 
yards  and  left  the  cut  grain  standing,  now  worked 
back  again,  and  using  his  right  foot  as  a  lever,  he 
rolled  the  wheat  into  a  sheaf.  Plucking  a  few  straws 
from  the  sheaf  he  knotted  the  ears  together,  and 
using  them  as  a  string  he  tied  the  sheaf  round  the 
"waist."  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  mopped  his 
brow  with  a  red  handkerchief  decorated  with  large 
white  spots. 

"Time  to  eat  our  vittles,  neighbours,"  he  said, 
stretching  his  back.  "And  I  could  do  with  a  drap 
in  my  innards — I'm  mortal  dry." 

A  number  of  heads  rose  from  among  the  corn  like 
hares  popping  out  of  their  "form";  the  women 
adjusted  their  sun-bonnets  and  shook  their  skirts; 
the  men  stretched  their  arms.  Among  the  latter 
were  three  soldiers  in  regulation  shirts,  breeches, 
and  puttees,  who,  as  they  stood  upright,  performed, 
by  way  of  easing  their  muscles,  a  variety  of  mili- 
tary exercises  in  which  an  Army  Instructor  would 
have  recognized  a  satisfactory  reproduction  of  the 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  137 

"Rest,"  "Bend,"  and  "Stretch"  positions.  A  mo- 
ment later  the  head  of  a  fourth  soldier  appeared  in 
close  juxtaposition  to  that  of  a  girl  in  a  lilac  sun- 
bonnet.  The  owner  of  the  sun-bonnet  was  flushed 
with  a  glow  which  may  have  been  due  to  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  but  may  also  have  had  a  more  emotional 
origin.  A  coil  of  auburn  hair  had  slipped  from  under 
the  flap  of  her  bonnet  and  hung  distractingly  on  the 
nape  of  her  white  neck,  and  as  she  rose  she  surrep- 
titiously put  it  up. 

The  little  party  moved  to  the  shade  of  an  elm 
beside  the  hedge  and  sat  down  to  their  meal.  One 
of  the  women  produced  a  bottle  of  "small  beer" — a 
cottage  brew  of  nettle,  clytes,  dandelion,  and  other 
herbs,  more  cooling  than  invigorating — and  poured 
it  into  a  cup.  The  man  who  had  spoken  uncorked 
a  large  jar  of  yellow  earthenware,  and  handed  it  to 
an  old  man  at  his  side,  who,  holding  it  unsteadily 
with  both  hands,  elevated  it  to  a  horizontal  position 
and  drank  with  earnest  concentration.  The  other 
men  watched  him  with  a  look  of  studied  disinterested- 
ness. He  then  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  passed  the  vessel  to  his  neighbour,  the  jar 
circulating  among  the  members  of  the  group  like 
a  loving  cup. 

"It  be  a  neighbourly  way  of  drinking — like  Holy 
Communion,"  said  the  old  man,  "but  I  could  do 
with  a  half-pint  mug.  It  don't  get  no  head  on  it." 

He  was  an  old  man  of  fourscore  and  upward,  and 
his  years  carried  with  them  the  prerogatives  which 
age  always  commands  in  a  rural  community  domi- 


i38  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

nated  by  oral  tradition.  His  knuckles  were  shiny 
and  swollen  with  rheumatism,  his  arms  brown  as  a 
kippered  herring  and  mottled,  and  the  skin  on  each 
side  of  his  neck  hung  in  loose  folds — a  chronology  of 
age  as  unmistakable  as  the  rings  on  a  cow's  horns. 
His  blue  eyes  had  a  lustreless  watery  look,  and  when 
he  laughed — which  he  did  with  difficulty,  for  his 
maxillary  muscles  had  lost  their  flexibility — the 
wrinkles  round  his  eyes  were  multiplied  till  they 
added  another  ten  years  to  his  face;  his  nose  drooped 
toward  his  chin,  and  his  nut-cracker  jaws  revealed, 
as  they  parted,  a  solitary  tooth  which  hung  at  the 
entrance  of  his  mouth  like  a  stalactite  in  a  cavern. 
But  he  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  his  years,  was 
learned  in  a  homely  meteorology  and  in  agrarian 
history,  and  could  tell  you  the  exact  year  in  which 
the  bagging-hook  gave  way  to  the  binder  and  the 
scythe  to  the  mowing  machine  as  instruments  of 
husbandry.  He  spoke  a  dialect  which  was  pure 
Anglo-Saxon,  enriched  by  the  opulent  vocabulary 
of  the  Scriptures  and  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer^ 
although  he  could  neither  read  nor  write.  Also  he 
had  that  dignity  of  manner  which  is  the  reward  of  a 
placid  old  age,  and  of  a  life  spent  in  the  calm,  un- 
hurried tillage  of  the  soil. 

For  some  minutes  the  party  ate  contemplatively 
and  no  one  spoke,  until  the  old  man's  eye  alighted 
on  the  wooden  leg  of  William  Tuck,  late  of  the  Wilt- 
shire Regiment,  now  discharged  under  the  King's 
Regulations  from  His  Majesty's  Army  as  perma- 
nently disabled. 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  139 

"A  tidy  piece  of  carpentry,  that  leg  o'  yourn, 
William  Tuck,"  said  the  old  man. 

"It  be  that,"  replied  William  Tuck,  contemplating 
his  anatomy  with  a  feeling  of  distinction.  "But  it 
be  strange  at  first,  very  strange  it  be.  D'ye  know, 
neighbours,  when  I  gets  a  touch  o'  rheumatics  in  me 
thigh  I  can  feel  it  below  the  knee  in  the  leg  as  isn't 
theer." 

They  pondered  this  statement  in  silence,  until  the 
old  man,  fixing  William  Tuck  with  his  eye,  put  a 
question. 

"That's  a  ghostly  leg  to  have,  a  ghostly  leg  it  be. 
Say,  young  William,  did  they  give  that  leg  o'  yourn 
Christian  burial  in  France?" 

"No!  they've  no  time  for  the  likes  of  that." 

"Then  take  my  word  for  it,  William  Tuck,"  said 
the  old  man  solemnly,  "that  lonely  leg  o'  yourn  be  a 
haunting  ye.  If  thee  doesn't  write  to  Government 
asking  for  that  mournful  leg  o'  yourn  to  be  buried 
with  th'  sacraments  of  Holy  Church,  that  leg'H 
haunt  thee  to  thy  dying  day.  Thee'll  have  to  account 
for  him  at  Judgment  Day  to  thy  Creator,  seeing  as 
He  made  thee  in  his  own  image." 

At  this  the  whole  party  stared  at  William  Tuck  as 
though  shocked  by  his  callous  want  of  natural  feeling 
toward  the  departed  member,  and,  conscious  of  their 
scrutiny,  he  attempted  to  divert  the  conversation. 
"I  done  my  bit  anyhow,"  he  said,  with  some  irrele- 
vance, \"  which  is  more  than  Jacob  Fox  hev  done," 
he  added  as  he  caught  the  eye  of  that  delinquent 
fixed  upon  him  with  a  look  of  horrified  fascination. 


i4o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Shame  on  ye,  William  Tuck,"  said  the  old  man 
magisterially.  "How  can  ye  cast  stones  at  that 
poor  natural?  Jacob  Fox,  tell  the  folk  what  the 
medical  gentleman  said  to  'ee.  Speak  the  truth, 
young  feller,  and  shame  the  devil/* 

Jacob — an  anaemic-looking  youth  who  had  a  way 
of  moving  his  hands  uncertainly  as  though  they 
did  not  belong  to  him — now  finding  himself  the  centre 
of  attention,  blushed  with  nervous  trepidation.  He 
had  a  prominent  Adam's  apple  in  his  long  neck 
which  resembled  the  "bubble"  in  the  clinometer  of 
a  field  gun  in  being  a  kind  of  index  of  his  equili- 
brium, so  that  whenever  he  was  about  to  speak  in 
company  it  could  be  seen  to  wobble  agitatedly 
through  his  skin.  When,  after  some  ineffectual 
attempts  of  its  owner  to  swallow  it,  it  returned  to 
the  horizontal,  Jacob  found  speech. 

"I  went  into  a  room — a  girt  room  as  big  as  Far- 
mer Leighfield's  barn,  and  I  zeed  a  lot  of  young 
fellers  there  all  standing  naked  wi'out  so  much  as  a 
fig-leaf  between  'em,  and  I  thought  as  it  was  the 
Judgment  Day.  And  there  was  a  officer  gentleman 
as  was  a  pinching  'em  and  feeling  'em  as  though  they 
were  fat  ewes  in  a  pen  on  market  day  and  'e  a  gwine 
to  buy  'em.  And  a  soldier  called  out  my  name  and  I 
say:  'Here,  begging  your  pardon,  sir';  and  the 
officer  gentleman  says:  'Jump  that  form!'  and  I 
jumps  'en.  Then  he  says:  'Hop  on  your  right 
foot',  and  I  hops.  Then  he  says:  'Open  your 
mouth',  and  I  opens  it.  And  he  looks  at  my  teeth 
and  I  says:  *I  be  twenty-two,  please  sir,'  seeing 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  141 

as  I  thought  he  was  counting  my  years  of  wisdom 
in  my  mouth  like  a  hoss.  And  he  looks  at  me 
with  eyes  like  a  sparrer-hawk's  and  laughs,  and 
then  he  holds  a  thing  like  a  cider-funnel  to  my 
chest  and  says:  'Say  Ah',  and  I  says  'Ah-h'  so  be 
as  if  we  were  in  church,  and  he  listens  with  his  head 
on  one  side  to  the  works  of  Nature  in  my  innards 
as  though  I  was  a  watch  and  he  wanted  to  see  if  I 
was  still  a-going.  I  felt  mortal  afeard.  I  do  b'lieve, 
neighbours,"  added  Jacob  Fox,  looking  round  with 
homeless  eyes,  "as  that  man  could  read  a  body's 
unlawful  thoughts  like  the  Almighty — so  I  tried  to 
think  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  whereby  he  might  not 
catch  me  in  carnal  meditations." 

"A  pious  thing  to  do,  and  prudent,  Jacob,"  said 
the  old  man  approvingly,  "though  I  never  could 
mind  anything  but  the  'Churching  of  Women'  when 
I  tries  to  repeat  them  holy  things." 

"And  when  I'd  got  to  'Thy  Kingdom  come'  he 
took  away  his  weapon  and  began  to  tap  all  the  bones 
in  my  chest,  one  after  t'other,  same  as  if  he  was  a 
bum-bailiff  taking  a  hinventory,  to  see  if  they  were 
all  there.  And  I  says:  'Begging  your  pardon,  sir, 
I  might  not  have  the  lawful  number,  seeing  as  I  was 
born  two  months  afore  I  was  expected  in  the  world." 

"Aye,  that  you  was,  Jacob  Fox,  I  do  well  remem- 
ber it,  and  a  mortal  tribulation  you  was  to  your  poor 
mother.  It  was  nigh  six  months  afore  she  wur 
churched." 

"And  the  medical  gentleman  says:  'What's 
that,  my  man?' — sharp,  like  that — and  I  says: 


i42  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

'Yes,  sir,  my  mother  and  the  neighbours  do  say  that 
that  was  the  reason  why  I  get  the  falling  sickness  and 
am  so  afflicted  in  my  intellects/  And  then  he  looks 
at  me  hard  and  questions  me.  'Cross  your  legs',  he 
says,  and  I  crossed  'em  and  he  fetched  me  a  clout 
on  the  knee-cap.  Yes,  that  ah  did.  Lordy,  the 
liberties  that  man  did  take  with  my  person,  neigh- 
bours, ye  would  never  believe.  And  at  last  he  writes 
something  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  the  soldjer  with 
the  stripes  says:  'We  shan't  want  you,  my  man'; 
and  he  gives  me  a  paper." 

"And  was  that  all  he  said,  Jacob  Fox?" 

"Yes,  it  were.  But  I  did  hear  him  say  as  I  was  a 
wonderful  chap,"  Jacob  added  proudly.  "He  said 
as  I  was  the  most  half-wittedest  fellow  as  ever  he'd 
zeed." 

"Aye!  that  you  be,"  said  the  patriarch,  looking 
round  for  approval  as  though  this  were  a  compli- 
ment paid  to  the  whole  parish.  "Yes,  we  do  all 
know  as  you  be  wonderfully  half-witted." 

At  this  they  all  stared  at  Jacob  Fox  with  a  kind  of 
communal  pride,  whereat  Jacob  blushed  con- 
fusedly, and,  astonished  at  having  held  the  centre  of 
the  stage  so  long,  retired  hurriedly  into  the 'wings, 
taking  refuge  behind  the  broad  back  of  Daniel 
Newth,  the  patriarch's  son,  a  hale  youth  of  about 
fifty-five,  who  in  his  father's  opinion  was  still  merely 
adolescent. 

"It  do  mind  me  of  Scriptures,"  said  the  old  man 
reflectively,  "this  recruiting  do.  One  shall  be 
taken  and  t'other  shall  be  left.  It  do  all  seem  like 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  143 

the  Last  Day,  it  do.  It  were  never  like  this  before. 
I  mind  how  they'd  'list  fellers  in  the  old  days — the 
recruiting  sergeant  'ud  come  round  with  his  cap 
full  o'  ribbons  and  talk  pleasant  like  about  the  won- 
derful life  a  soldjer  'd  hev  in  foreign  parts.  Lawk- 
a-massey!  how  that  feller  could  talk — like  a  parson 
—aw  could  make  ye  feel  as  proud  as  Lucifer  telling 
ye  how  His  Majesty  had  taken  a  partic'ler  fancy  to 
ye  as  a  likely  young  feller  to  stand  before  kings  and 
golden  thrones.  He  got  hold  of  poor  Jarge  Kibble- 
white  that  way  and  giv  'en  three  ribbons  of  many 
colours  like  Joseph's  coat — poor  Jarge  as  was  killed 
at  the  Battle  of  Alma.  That  recruiting  sergeant 
used  to  come  round  at  hi  ring-fair,  Lady  Day  and 
Michaelmas  he  come  round,  and  if  he'd  see  a  likely 
looking  young  carter  with  the  whipcord  plaited 
round  his  hat  he'd  go  up  to  'en  and  charm  the  soul 
out  of  'en  like  witchcraft." 

"D'you  remember  the  Crimea?"  asked  one  of 
the  soldiers. 

"Ah,  that  I  do,  young  feller.  I  remember  a  mint 
o'  things  afore  you  was  conceived  in  your  mother's 
womb.  I  be  an  old  man,  the  oldest  man  in  the 
parish,  bain't  I,  neighbours?" 

"Yes,  grandf'er,  that  you  be.  You  be  a  terribly 
ancient  old  man." 

"Yes,  I  be.  I've  a-buried  three  wives.  And 
I've  never  once  been  on  the  parish.  Yes,  I  do 
mind  the  Crimeer.  There  was  thirteen  men  went 
from  this  parish  and  all  on  'em  passed  save  one. 
It  was  just  after  our  Tontine  club  had  its  'break- 


144  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

up,'  and  we  walking  two  and  two  with  red  staves  to 
the  'Goat  and  Compasses/  All  of  'em  was  in  the 
Wiltshires  except  Jude  Teagle  as  joined  the  Holy 
Boys,  the  same  regiment  as  sold  their  Prayer-Books 
for  playing-cards,  which  was  a  sinful  thing  to  do. 
It  was  a  terrible  big  battle — the  Battle  of  Alma. 
I  do  mind  as  we  had  a  song  at  harvest  home  that 
year  after  we'd  carried  the  last  load. 

"There's  old  Jacky  Rooshian 

And  a  million  o*  men. 
And  there's  poor  John  Bull 
W:'  dree  score  and  ten. 

"I  do  forget  the  rest.  They  shot  down  our  men 
like  sparrers  till  we  scaled  the  hill,  and  then  they  run 
like  flocks  oJ  sheep  away  from  'em — they  do  say  as 
it's  the  same  now — and  Old  Boney,  who  was  their 
head  man,  as  was  brought  up  to  see  'em  drive  us 
into  the  sea,  says,  'Men,  we're  beaten.'  And  beaten 
they  was." 

"Why  didn't  you  do  your  bit  along  with  them?" 
said  one  of  the  soldiers  mischievously.  "You  must 
have  been  a  tidy  young  feller,"  he  added,  as  he 
gazed  with  a  wink  of  his  eye  at  the  bony  figure  of 
the  ancient  man  gnarled,  like  an  old  oak. 

"Young  feller/'  said  the  old  man  solemnly,  "I 
was  a  married  man  wi'  dree  childer,  and  the 
quartern  loaf  cost  a  shillin'  and  more.  Hov  'd  I  find 
vittles  for  'em?  There  warn't  no  separation  al- 
lowances in  those  days,  there  warn't,  and  no  sol- 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  145 

diers'  wives  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land  an*  love- 
childer  a-getting  it  too  same  as  if  they  was  born  in 
lawful  wedlock.  No,  that  there  warn't.  But  I  hev 
attested  now  and  be  ready  to  come  up  when  called 
upon  if  the  King  be  so  minded." 

At  this  all  four  soldiers  laughed  incredulously. 

"It  be  true,  I'll  take  a  gospel  oath  on  it,"  said  the 
old  man's  son.  "It  was  when  they  had  bills  stuck 
up  on  the  school  by  Lord  Derby,  calling  on  His 
Majesty's  subjects  to  attest  like  men.  And  afore 
we  knowed  what  he  was  gwine  to  do,  feyther  goes 
up  to  squire  and  says:  'I  be  come  to  attest,  sir, 
and  do  my  bit  against  those  ungodly  men.'  And 
squire  says:  'You're  too  old,  Jarge,  you're  an  old 
ancient  man.'  And  feyther  comes  home  and  sits  in 
chimbly  and  never  a  word  says  'e  to  any  on  us.  And 
he  won't  touch  bite  or  sup,  and  sits  there  a-fretting 
and  won't  speak  to  any  one,  as  though  he  were  turned 
into  a  pillar  of  salt.  And  we  calls  in  the  doctor  as 
examined  him  and  couldn't  find  nothing  wrong  with 
'un,  and  he  says  "E's  got  summat  on  his  mind/ 
And  at  last  he  gets  it  out  on  'en,  and  feyther  tells  'en 
as  squire  says  he  be  too  old  and  the  grasshopper's 
a  burden  and  desire  do  fail — and  feyther  says  as 
he'll  never  go  out  of  the  house  again  except  veet 
voremost,  and  it  ain't  no  good  hoeing  and  hedge- 
cutting  for  squire,  for  if  he  be  too  old  for  a  soldjer 
Je  be  too  old  for  labour  at  a  shillin'  a  day,  and  'e 
don't  want  no  charity.  And  squire,  when  he  heerd  it, 
sent  for  feyther  and — you  tell  'em  what  squire  said, 
feyther."  " 


146  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  old  man  wiped  his  forehead  with  trembling 
hands. 

:"E  said  to  me,  'e  said:  'Jarge,  I  made  a  mistake, 
I  did.  We'll  put  you  in  group  one  hundred  and  dirty 
dree — to  be  called  up  if  so  be  required/  And  he 
give  I  two  shillin'  and  nine-pence  and  said :  'It's  the 
King's  money,  Jarge,  and  I  congratulate  you. 
You're  a  credit  to  the  parish  and  an  hexample  to  the 
younger  men." 

"Aye,  that  you  be,  grandf'er,"  chorused  his 
fellow-parishioners. 

"Well  done,  old  sport,"  said  the  soldier  who  had 
interrogated  him,  "we'd  sooner  have  you  in  the 
battalion  than  any  of  those  cold-footed,  conscientious 
objectors  any  day.  Lord  love  me,  we  would." 

"We  would  that,"  said  another.  "We'll  make 
you  our  mascot." 

"Mascot,"  said  the  old  man,  "what  be  that?" 

"Pride  o'  the  reg'ment,"  replied  the  soldier  la- 
conically. "We've  got  a  bull-dog.  I  guess  you're 
one  of  the  same  breed." 

The  old  man  ignored  the  compliment.  "This  war 
be  a  deep  and  fearful  thing,  neighbours,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "When  I  did  last  hear  parson  read  the 
Commination  Service  I  did  think  of  that  there  Kay- 
ser  at  the  Last  Day,  when  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead, 
and  all  the  drownded  babes  and  sucklings  and  the 
women  with  child  and  the  poor  chaps  that  hev  died 
in  torment  a-calling  on  their  mothers  do  rise  up  and 
point  the  finger  of  accusation  at  'en  and  do  say: 
Thou  art  the  man!'  I  tell  ye  it  do  make  my  old 


t  THE  HUSBANDMEN  ,  147 

bones  like  water  when  I  think  of  the  wrath  of  the 
Almighty  and  what  He  hev  in  store  for  that  misbe- 
gotten man." 

"True,  most  true,  and  well-spoken,  Jarge.  It  were 
better  a  mill-stone  were  hung  round  that  man's  neck, 
it  were — but  'tis  time  to  put  these  sheaves  up, 


sonnies." 


They  rose  to  their  feet. 

"Now,  my  lads,"  said  Daniel  Newth  tutorially  to 
the  four  soldiers,  "you  just  bide  a  bit  and  zee  how  I 
does  it." 

He  took  two  sheaves  and  embracing  one  mater- 
nally in  each  arm  he  stood  them  upright  upon  the 
soil  so  as  to  get  the  butts  about  a  yard  apart.  He 
then  sloped  them  toward  one  another  so  that  they 
made  an  isosceles  triangle  with  the  ground.  This 
done  he  took  a  second  couple  and  placed  them 
against  the  first,  but  not  quite  parallel,  so  that  they 
stood  at  an  angle  to  it,  stacked  together  like  four 
rifles.  "It  makes  'em  stand  easier,"  he  explained, 
"and  packs  the  ears  better."  This  done  the  shock 
was  complete. 

"Now  my  lads,  ye  zees  as  I've  a  placed  'em  in 
fours.  That's  so  as  they'll  get  more  air  and  dry 
quicker,  though  the  sheaf  to  the  north  won't  get 
much  sun.  Some  folks  shocks  em  lengthways  in 
sixes  with  the  ridge  running  north  and  south.  Well, 
that's  to  get  the  best  of  the  sun  on  'em  and  to  make 
'em  stand  against  the  wind  better.  But  they  don't 
dry  so  well  that  way." 

"It's  like  filling  sandbags  and  consolidating,"  said 


i48  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARM. 

one  of  the  soldiers  reflectively.  "You  wouldn't 
think  it,  mister,  but  there's  a  lot  of  science  in  building 
a  parapet.  You've  got  to  fill  yer  sandbags  only 
three  parts  full,  beat  'em  with  yer  entrenching-tool, 
and  then  slope  'em  so  as  they  are  well  and  truly 
laid." 

"Aye,  aye,  it  be  the  same  with  thatching.  It  be 
wonderful  what  a  lot  of  science  there  is  in  the  works 
of  man's  hand.  There's  a  right  way  and  a  wrong 
with  everything." 

As  they  talked,  a  burring  sound  as  of  a  gigantic 
insect  was  heard  behind  them  and  two  horses  ap- 
peared driven  by  a  girl  in  a  "smock"  and  breeches 
who  sat  gracefully  in  the  tiny  saddle  of  a  low  iron 
vehicle.  Below  the  axle  was  a  row  of  sharp  steel 
knives  like  a  shark's  teeth,  and  at  the  side  of  it 
"sails"  of  painted  wood  revolved  like  the  arms  of  a 
windmill  with  the  progress  of  the  machine  and,  re- 
volving, pressed  the  wheat  on  the  near  side  of  the 
driver  against  the  knives  and  then  carried  the  cut 
grain  over  the  driving-wheel  by  means  of  an  endless 
web  of  canvas.  A  curved  arm,  threaded  with  twine 
like  the  needle  of  a  sewing-machine,  encircled  the 
bundle  of  grain,  tied  it,  cut  the  twine-band,  and  the 
sheaf  was  then  thrown  off  the  machine. 

The  chariot  passed  on,  leaving  a  swathe  of  sheaves 
of  yellow  grain  entwined  with  a  garland  of  lilac 
scabious,  pink  and  white  convolvulus,  scarlet  pim- 
pernel, poppies,  and  all  the  hectic  flowers  of  the  corn- 
field. A  hare  bolted  from  her  sanctuary  in  the  di- 
minishing wheat  and  was  pursued  with  shouts  of 


THE  HUSBANDMEN  149 

Kamerad  by  the  soldiers  till  she  made  her  escape 
through  the  yarrow  in  the  hedge. 

They  returned  breathless  from  the  pursuit,  and 
as  the  machine,  which  was  steadily  reducing  the 
rectangle  of  the  standing  grain  to  smaller  and  smaller 
dimensions,  returned,  they  gazed  on  it,  their  atten- 
tion divided  between  its  human-like  gesticulations 
and  the  girl  who  drove  it. 

"Tanks  ain't  in  it  with  that  old  windmill,"  said  one 
of  them.  "It'll  begin  to  talk  next,  like  a  blooming 
gramophone." 

"Its  a  binder,"  said  the  old  man;  "they  came  in 
in  ninety-two.  They  be  mortal  clever  things  and 
can  do  everything  but  talk.  But  they  don't  bind 
as  tidy  as  a  man  do — they  don't  keep  the  butts 
together." 

"There  ain't  no  flies  on  that  girl,"  said  another 
soldier  as  he  watched  this  new  Persephone  gathering 
the  flowers  of  the  field  with  the  finger-beam  of  her 
docile  chariot. 

"I  don't  hold  with  'em,"  said  the  old  man  du- 
biously. "  I  don't  mind  wenches  a-binding  sheaves — 
it's  like  holding  a  little  maid  against  a  woman's 
bosom  and  tying  her  pinafore  behind  her — and 
women  can  do  it  tidy.  But  this  driving  of  bosses — 
it's  men's  work.  The  world's  getting  topsy-turvy 
with  maids  a-doing  the  work  of  men.  It's  against 
Nature.  'Male  and  Female  created  He  them/ 
I  say." 

The  day  wore  on  to  its  close,  the  shadows  of  the  elm 
deepened,  and  the  sun  began  to  sink  like  a  ball  of 


i5o  'GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

fire  over  the  downs.  A  light  breeze  flickered  among 
the  stalks  of  uncut  grain  and  brushed  the  surface 
with  an  invisible  caress  so  that  a  ripple  passed  over 
the  drooping  ears  of  grain. 

"Time  to  be  getting  home-along,"  said  Daniel 
Newth. 

The  toilers  rose  and  straightened  themselves. 
There  was  an  unmistakable  sound  of  amorous  salu- 
tation behind  one  of  the  shocks  of  wheat  and  the  girl 
in  the  lilac  sun-bonnet  emerged,  readjusting  the 
strings,  her  face  a  deep  crimson.  She  was  followed 
by  a  soldier  wearing  a  look  of  studied  unconscious- 
ness. His  comrades  gazed  at  the  pair  with  a  morti- 
fying conviction  of  lost  opportunities. 

"They  do  say  as  kissing  goes  by  favouring," 
said  the  old  man  reflectively. 

Five  days  later  the  Musketry  Inspecting  Officer, 
sitting  in  his  room  at  the  Headquarters  of  the  Com- 
mand, was  interrupted  by  a  ring  on  the  telephone. 
He  took  down  the  receiver. 

"Hello!  What?  Harvesting  finished,  did  you 
say?  Right  oh!  We'll  open  the  field-firing  range 
again."  And  he  rose  and  removed  a  flag  from  the 
map. 


X 

THE  OLD  GUARD 

"Notre  armee  avait  recuelli  les  invalides  de  la  grande  armee 
et  Us  mouraient  dans  nos  bras,  en  nous  laissant  le  souvenir 
de  leurs  caracteres  primitifs  et  singuliers.  Ces  hommes  nous 
paraissaient  les  restes  d'une  race  gigantesque  qui  s'eteignait 
homme  par  homme  et  pour  toujours" — DE  VIGNY. 

THIS   is    a   plain   tale — the    tale  of  a  West- 
country  regiment  and  how  it  carried  on  in 
the  first  three    months   of  the   war.     It   is 
the  regiment  with  a  hole  in  its  soup-tureen,  but  I'll 
tell  that  story  another  day.     They  went  into  the 
first   battle   of  Ypres   with    four   companies;   they 
came  out  of  it  at  the  end  of  twenty-one  days  with 
rather  less  than  two.     During  those  three  weeks 
they  never  took  their  boots  off,  but  one  of  their 
officers  believes  he  once  had  a  wash. 

But  I  must  go  back  a  bit.  Their  transport  cast  off 
her  moorings  and  cleared  a  certain  harbour  on 
August  14,  1914,  at  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 
The  quays  were  black  with  crowds  who  had  come  to 
wish  them  God-speed,  but  as  the  ship  backed  away 
the  drum-fire  of  cheering  which  followed  them  sud- 
denly fell  to  a  dead  silence,  and  the  spectators  held 
their  breath;  the  stern  of  the  great  ship  was  within  a 


152  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

hair's  breadth  of  crashing  into  the  bows  of  another. 
The  Captain  ran  to  the  telegraph.  At  the  same 
moment  a  clear  tenor  voice  from  among  the  crowd 
of  men  on  deck  broke  into  a  song;  with  the  second 
note  the  whole  battalion  took  it  up,  singing  very 
softly  and  in  perfect  time.  The  song  rolled  away 
from  the  ship,  echoed  against  the  tall  warehouses 
on  the  quay  and  died  away  upon  the  upper  reaches  of 
the  river.  It  was  "Tipperary."  The  crowd  lis- 
tened in  silence,  hanging  upon  every  note;  a  woman 
sobbed  hysterically;  the  waters  churned  with  the 
thrash  of  the  propeller,  and  slowly  the  transport, 
as  she  answered  her  helm,  described  a  great  arc  until 
her  bows  were  pointing  toward  the  open  sea.  She 
glided  down  the  river  amidst  a  flutter  of  handker- 
chiefs, and  the  subdued  cheers  of  people  who  had 
suddenly  grown  thoughtful.  They  watched  her  in 
silence  as  she  diminished  to  the  size  of  a  ship's  buoy, 
faded  into  a  wreath  of  smoke,  and  finally  sank  below 
the  red  horizon. 

Within  a  week  they  were  at  Mons,  and  on  a  Sun- 
day afternoon  under  a  blazing  sun  they  found  them- 
selves on  the  far  side  of  the  canal,  where  they  put  out 
outposts  and  dug  themselves  in.  As  they  watched 
the  white  road  in  front  of  them,  small  patrols  of  men 
in  field-gray  uniforms  suddenly  appeared  upon  it 
and,  not  liking  the  look  of  them,  scuttled  back.  At 
four  o'clock  a  solid  mass  of  the  enemy  advanced 
toward  a  point  which  the  battalion  had  carefully 
ranged  on — to  be  precise,  it  was  "500";  the  battalion 
lay  very  still,  each  man  with  his  eye  on  the  sights  of 


THE  OLD  GUARD  153 

his  rifle  and  his  finger  on  the  trigger,  looking  back 
occasionally  at  the  platoon  commanders  who  were 
standing  up  behind  them,  which  is  a  way  platoon 
commanders  had  in  those  days.  There  was  a  shrill 
whistle,  a  crackle  of  musketry,  and,  amidst  spurts 
of  dust,  the  gray  mass  ahead  of  them  suddenly 
dissolved  like  smoke.  The  remnant  of  a  German 
battalion  fell  back  in  disorder,  and  told  a  strange 
tale  of  the  English  "swine-dogs"  having  massed 
some  hundred  machine-guns  on  a  front  of  a  few  hun- 
dred yards.  The  enemy  believed  that  story  for 
quite  a  long  time,  until  they  discovered  that  they 
were  up  against  the  finest  marksmen  in  the  world. 

After  that  they  were  busy,  learning  many  things 
— among  others  not  to  put  their  heads  up,  and  that 
this  wasn't  manoeuvres  after  all.  Of  the  next  ten 
days  they  have  no  very  clear  recollection,  except 
that  they  lost  nearly  everything  except  their  wits— 
their  horses  and  first-line  transport  having  been 
badly  "strafed"  at  Le  Cateau.  They  beat  all 
records  in  somnambulism,  but  when  the  Germans 
trod  on  their  toes  at  Crepy  they  suddenly  showed 
themselves  most  disagreeably  wide  awake  This, 
I  think,  was  also  on  a  Sunday,  and  long  after  that 
the  men  would  bet  any  odds  every  Saturday  night 
on  there  being  quite  a  big  "scrap"  the  next  day. 

During  those  days  they  led  a  vagabond  life, 
quite  unlike  anything  they  had  ever  known  in  bar- 
racks. It  was  very  much  to  the  taste  of  Private 
John  Yeoman,  the  black  sheep  of  the  regiment, 
whose  conduct-sheet  covered  six  pages  of  flimsy. 


154  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"No  guard  room,  no  orderly  room,  no  morning 
parade — a  bit  of  allright."  Yeoman  has  succeeded 
where  ambitious  men  of  letters  have  failed;  he  has 
described  the  Great  Retreat  in  a  single  sentence. 

On  the  third  Sunday,  at  Tournan,  they  quite  forgot 
themselves  on  parade  when  the  C.O.  read  out  a 
Brigade  Order,  of  which  they  only  heard  the  first 
three  words:  "Army  is  advancing.  .  .  .  The 
rest,  which  does  not  matter,  was  inaudible,  and 
Yeoman  threw  his  cap  into  the  air.  He  was  always 
a  little  premature. 

The  next  thing  they  knew  was  that  they  were 
picking  up  the  trail.  They  followed  a  hot  scent  and 
pungent — the  ashes  of  the  enemy's  bivouacs  were 
still  warm  and  they  stank  like  dung-heaps.  Yeo- 
man, who  had  often  incurred  extra  fatigues  and  pack- 
drill  for  appearing  "dirty  on  parade,"  drew  the  line 
at  offal  and  broken  bottles,  and  he  wondered  what 
kind  of  enemy  it  was  who  could  smash  a  child's 
toys  and  throw  them  into  the  street.  There  were 
other  things  at  which  he  drew  the  line;  it  was  near 
Fere-en-Tardenois,  and  the  mother  who  had  given 
him  a  glass  of  v in  rouge  showed  him  the  body  of  her 
little  daughter,  with  whom  the  Prussians  had  done 
their  worst.  Yeoman  was  a  hard  nut,  but  he  wept. 
He  emptied  his  pockets  on  to  the  table  and  bolted. 
They  had  halted  there,  and  this  made  him  late  in 
falling  in,  for  which  he  got  "crimed"  to  the  tune 
of  three  days'  F.P.  No.  I.  He  did  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  explain. 
"  During  those  days  they  spent  most  of  the  time 


r  THE  OLD  GUARD  155 

dodging  in  and  out  of  thick  beech  woods  and  climb- 
ing steep  chalk  cliffs,  driving  the  Germans — who  were 
uncommonly  strong  on  the  wing — before  them  like 
a  line  of  beaters.  They  were  advanced-guard  and 
had  to  feel  their  way,  with  the  result  that  they  got 
into  a  very  hot  corner  where  they  were  held  up  by 
German  wire  and  badly  enfiladed.  It  was  here  that 
Yeoman  lost  his  pal;  having  no  crape  he  blacked 
the  second  button  of  his  tunic  and  made  certain 
resolutions,  which  may  account  for  his  getting  the 
D.C.N. — but  that  comes  later. 

The  sun  was  very  hot  and  the  German  dead  lay 
where  they  had  fallen  some  days  before;  and  for  the 
first  time  he  realized  the  meaning  of  the  words  he  had 
as  a  boy  often  heard  in  the  parish  church — before 
he  fell  from  grace  and  went  "mouching"  on  the 
Sabbath — words  about  a  "corruptible  body."  He 
began  to  associate  war  with  beastly  smells.  Most 
of  the  time  he  lay  very  flat  on  his  stomach,  clicking 
his  bolt  and  emptying  the  magazine;  at  intervals  he 
heard  the  order  "Cease  Fire!  Advance";  where- 
iiDon  he  advanced  in  short  rushes  and  again  lay 
on  his  stomach  with  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  neck 
to  keep  off  the  sun.  He  had  a  most  amazing  thirst, 
and  sighed  often  for  a  pint  of  bitter. 

It  was  at  this  stage  that  he  realized  that  the  wants 
of  man  are  really  very  simple,  and  although  arti- 
ficially multiplied  by  civilization  may  be  reduced  to 
four: — cover,  drink,  victuals,  and  sleep;  later,  in 
Flanders,  he  found  there  was  a  fifth  which  was 
warmth.  Women  he  had  always  regarded  as  a 


156  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

luxury  and  unattainable,  and  on  the  last  sheet  of 
his  Pay-book,  opposite  his  M.O.'s  certificate  that 
his  inoculation  was  complete,  and  below  the  words 

"IN  THE  EVENT  OF  MY  DEATH  I  GIVE  THE  WHOLE  OF 
MY  PROPERTY  AND  EFFECTS  TO.  .  .  ."  he  had 

written:  " Hannah  Honey,  whom  I  hereby  appoint 
my  next-of-kin,"  which  was  magnanimous,  seeing 
that  Hannah  had  refused  him  thrice.  He  some- 
times wondered  whether  she  knew  about  his  conduct- 
sheet.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  Hannah  .who, 
recognizing  the  tenor  voice  when  he  struck  up  "Tip- 
perary"  on  the  transport,  had  sobbed  hysterically, 
for,  with  all  his  faults,  which  were  many,  he  was  a 
simple  soul  and  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  himself 
which  he  felt  sure  was  shared  by  the  whole  battalion. 

He  did  not  know  that  his  C.O/s  sense  of  values 
was  also  undergoing  a  revision,  and  that  just  as 
Yeoman  had  discovered  that  on  active  service  there 
were  only  four  wants,  so  his  C.O.  had  discovered 
there  were  only  four  virtues — truthfulness,  courage, 
fortitude,  and  unselfishness.  All  these  Yeoman 
had,  and  although  he  did  not  know  it,  there  were 
some  who  were  beginning  to  take  note  of  the  fact. 

On  the  night  of  September  9th,  having  run  clear 
out  of  ammunition,  they  withdrew  three-quarters  of  a 
mile,  and  the  platoon  sergeant  called  the  roll;  there 
were  many  who  never  answered  it.  Here  they 
learnt  for  the  first  time  that  there  had  been  a  big 
battle  and,  with  some  astonishment,  that  they  had 
been  in  it.  The  men  themselves  called  it  a  "scrap"; 
and  as  it  did  not  happen  to  fall  on  a  Sunday  they 


THE  OLD  GUARD  157 

stuck  stoutly  to  the  opinion  that  it  was  a  very 
minor  affair.  They  were  told  later  that  it  will  be 
known  to  future  generations  as  "The  Battle  of  the 
Marne,"  but  in  the  battalion  it  is  always  referred  to 
as  "the  scrap  at  Montrool."  "The  place  where 
I  got  stopped  all  them  days'  pay  for  losing  my 
pack"  gave  it  the  dignity  of  history  in  the  opinion 
of  John  Yeoman. 

Up  to  this  time  the  enemy,  being  in  a  hurry,  had 
only  got  his  field-guns  in  action,  and  they  had 
encountered  little  but  shrapnel,  which,  although 
surprisingly  indiscriminate  and  deadly  enough,  is 
nothing  like  so  intimidating  as  lyddite,  and  much 
cleaner.  Most  of  the  men  were  under  the  impres- 
sion, difficult  to  explain  and  hard  to  eradicate,  that 
big  guns  were  a  private  affair  between  opposing 
batteries;  as  Yeoman  put  it,  "it  bain't  'warfare"' 
to  use  heavy  guns  against  infantry.  He  still  cherished 
vague  ideas  that  war  was  like  a  football  match, 
and  that  somewhere  in  heaven  or  on  earth  there 
was  an  umpire  who  saw  that  the  rules  were  observed, 
although  he  was  fast  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  Germans  were  generally  (t  off  -side"  and  that 

occasionally  they  did  a  "foul."     But  near  M , 

after  they  had  crossed  the  Aisne  on  pontoon  rafts, 
they  were  undeceived. 

It  happened  about  nine  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing, while  they  were  waiting  in  the  village  in  close 
formation  for  our  artillery  to  open  fire  on  a  hill 
which  they  had  been  ordered  to  attack.  A  Taube 
flew  over  the  heads  of  the  men  in  the  village,  and 


158  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

just  half  an  hour  later  the  church  tower  crumpled 
up  suddenly  and  men  were  lying  on  their  backs  all 
over  the  street  amid  blocks  of  masonry,  a  cloud  of 
yellow  smoke,  and  showers  of  white  dust  fine  as 
flour.  Yeoman,  more  fortunate,  looked  round  an- 
grily to  see  who  it  was  had  suddenly  hit  him  in  the 
back.  He  coughed,  wiped  his  nose,  and  thrust  his 
knuckles  into  his  eyes;  he  saw  that  he  was  white  as 
a  miller  from  head  to  foot.  From  that  time  for- 
ward he  began  to  associate  war  with  sights  no  less 
than  smells,  and  equally  beastly. 

Later  on — in  Flanders — these  assaults  on  his 
senses  were  multiplied;  his  ear-drums  rattled  like  a 
tambourine,  his  eyes  smarted  as  though  someone 
had  thrown  pepper  into  them,  and  his  palate  tasted 
the  extremes  of  pineapple  and  chlorine,  which  is 
rather  like  almonds.  Also  his  tactile  sense  was 
offended  by  lice.  All  this,  however,  was  to  come. 

The  next  five  minutes  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  hell. 
The  whole  village  was  tumbling  to  pieces  about  him, 
and  the  streets  were  a  shambles.  He  heard  an 
order,  "File  out  by  companies!  No  doubling!" 
Each  company  waited  its  turn  with  stolid  equani- 
mity. Later  in  the  day  on  the  hill  above  the  village 
they  got  their  own  back.  Yeoman  was  better  at 
making  history  than  at  writing  it;  all  he  could  ever 
tell  you  about  the  Battle  of  the  Aisne  was:  "It  wur 
where  I  got  a  punch  in  the  back  from  a  German 
gunner  bloke  dree  mile  away — hitting  below  the 
belt  I  calls  it." 

For  five  days  afterward  they  led  a  woodman's  life 


THE  OLD  GUARD  159 

in  a  forest  where  they  lived  in  wigwams  made  of 
faggots  and  waterproof  sheets.  When  the  shrapnel 
came  whining  overhead  they  made  a  bolt  for  their 
"splinter-proofs,"  and  lay  in  the  burrows  for  what 
seemed  an  interminable  time,  after  which  first  one 
head  would  pop  out  and  then  another.  The  weather 
was  dry,  the  soil  gravel,  and  the  bracken  made  good 
bedding;  later  on,  in  the  wet  clay  of  Flanders,  they 
looked  back  to  those  days  on  the  Aisne  and  idealized 
them  as  a  blithe  pastoral.  Here  Yeoman  set  snares 
and  caught  rabbits,  which  rather  raised  his  reputa- 
tion in  the  battalion.  They  got  to  know  the  Ger- 
man ways  pretty  well — first  a  salvo,  then  a  dead 
pause  for  five  minutes  by  way  of  enticing  the  un- 
wary out  of  their  holes,  and  then  five  or  six  salvoes 
again.  This  taught  them  another  lesson,  which  is 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  psychology  in  war  or, 
as  Yeoman  put  it,  "There  bain't  no  vlies  on  Vritz." 
One  night  when  they  were  standing  by  for  an 
attack,  the  French  put  up  a  "strafe"  eight  miles 
away  at  a  place  called  Soissons,  which  they  knew  by 
its  tall  crag  of  a  cathedral  tower.  There  was  the 
roar  as  of  a  thunderstorm  in  the  air  and  the  sky  was 
one  great  conflagration  so  that  you  could  read  your 
watch  by  it  and  see  the  whites  of  the  next  man's 
eyes.  At  this  stage  they  began  to  realize  that  the 
war  was  going  to  be  rather  a  big  thing,  and  that  it 
might  not  be  over  by  Christmas  after  all. 

The  leaves  had  hardly  begun  to  change  colour  on 
the  beeches  when  their  trenches  were  taken  over  by 
the  French,  and  they  were  on  the  move  again  for 


160  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

an  unknown  destination  away  up  north.  They  did 
a  great  trek  of  150  miles  by  way  of  Abbeville,  where 
they  stopped  for  the  night;  a  journey  chiefly  mem- 
orable to  Yeoman  for  the  fact  that  there  he  got  into 
trouble  for  being  found  by  a  prowling  "red  cap"  in 
an  estaminet  after  the  hour  of  8  P.M.  This  led  to  his 
being  "told  off."  The  C.O.  asked  him  if  he  would 
take  his  award,  and  when  Yeoman,  who  was  of  an 
obliging  disposition,  said,  "Yes,  please,  sir,"  as  he 
always  did  on  these  judicial  occasions,  he  was 
astonished  to  be  merely  told  not  to  do  it  again. 

"Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  my  man/'  said  the  CO., 
with  a  mysterious  smile  as  Yeoman  waited  for 
something  more.  "By  the  way,  your  platoon 
commander  says  you  showed  up  well  at  Montreuil. 
I  suppose  you're  one  of  those  fellows  who  are  always 
looking  for  trouble,  and  so  long  as  the  Germans  pro- 
vide you  with  it,  you're  content  for  the  time  being." 
Which  was  true. 

Eleven  days  after  they  had  left  the  Aisne  they 
found  themselves  in  a  flat  country  where  not  a 
beech  was  to  be  seen,  but  pollarded  willows  grew 
thick  as  nettles.  It  reminded  Yeoman  of  Sedge- 
moor,  but  he  had  never  seen  women  in  wooden 
shoes  with  towing-ropes  round  their  waists  before. 
Also  the  beer  was  thin  as  nettle-beer.  It  was  a  bad 
country  for  artillery  observation,  and  for  infantry 
it  was  heavy  going,  for  the  soil  was  clay  and  clung  to 
the  soles  of  your  boots  like  yeast.  At  Bethune  he 
gave  his  coat  to  a  Belgian  refugee,  and  got  "crimed" 
for  "losing  by  neglect  certain  articles  of  clothing, 


THE  OLD  GUARD  161 

to  wit  one  overcoat."  It  was  commonly  said  of 
Yeoman — whose  father  had  been  a  poacher  in  days 
when  a  West-country  labourer  was  expected  by  the 
gentry  to  bring  up  a  family  of  ten  on  nine  shillings  a 
week — that  he  did  not  know  the  difference  between 
meum  and  tuum — which  may  have  been  true,  for 
he  never  could  keep  anything  of  his  own  if  he  thought 
others  were  in  need  of  it.  He  sometimes  "pinched" 
in  the  old  days,  when  in  the  society  of  his  pal,  but 
he  did  this  largely  from  an  adventurous  appetite 
for  mischief;  he  never  indulged  in  the  meaner  form  of 
larceny,  which  is  solitary  theft.  Moreover,  since  he 
had  seen  what  the  enemy  could  do,  in  the  way  of 
loot,  he  had  ceased  to  take  any  pleasure  in  being 
light-fingered;  he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  fellows 
who  stole  might  find  themselves  doing  worse  things. 
Which  in  its  way  was  an  ethical  discovery. 

On  the  first  day  they  took  up  a  position  facing 
north,  but  that  night  they  changed  it,  and  in  the 
morning  they  found  themselves  facing  the  sun. 
The  division  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  engaged  in 
wheeling  round  with  its  left,  swinging  on  their  right 
as  on  a  pivot  while  masses  of  French  cavalry  were 
operating  on  their  left  flank  in  an  attempt  to  roll  up  the 
German  right.  It  was  the  beginning  of  "the  great 
sweep,"  and  their  objective  was  to  cut  the  German 
line  of  retreat  on  Lille.  It  failed,  as  everybody 
knows,  and  from  that  moment  their  long  thin  line, 
extending  away  north  up  to  Ypres,  was  stretched 
to  breaking  point,  for  they  had  no  reserves.  They 
pushed  forward  and  got  astride  the  Estaires-La 


162  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Bassee  road;  it  was  the  extreme  point  of  their 
advance.  They  were  brought  up  against  a  wasp's 
nest  of  a  sugar  factory  full  of  machine-guns.  They 
could  not  see  anything  to  fire  at,  and  they  dare  not 
move  to  dig.  The  next  morning  their  left  company 
suddenly  found  themselves  between  two  fires;  the 
Germans  had  rushed  the  regiment  on  their  left  and 
driven  it  in.  They  knew  this  from  a  survivor  who, 
covered  with  clay  from  foot  to  head  as  though  he 
were  a  natural  feature  of  the  landscape,  crawled  in  a 
little  later.  They  had  just  one  platoon  in  hand 
and  this  they  rushed  up.  It  checked  the  enemy's 
advance,  who  may  have  mistaken  the  platoon  for  a 
battalion.  There  was  nothing  theatrical  about 
the  old  B.E.F.,  except  that  it  was  always  on  tour, 
but  in  one  respect  it  was  a  stage  army.  It  was 
always  pretending  to  be  bigger  than  it  was. 

Yeoman  remembered  that  village  as  "the  place 
where  I  lost  my  blooming  pipe,"  which  is  all  he  did 
remember.  He  felt  rather  annoyed  about  it. 

Then  came  a  night  which  those  who  survived  are 
not  likely  to  forget. 

But  at  this  point  I  will  let  Borlase  take  up  the  tale. 
After  all,  Yeoman  was  in  his  company  and  he  knew 
him  better  than  I  did,  for  Yeoman  had  poached  in 
Borlase's  preserves  in  the  old  days  before  he  took  the 
King's  shilling,  and  he  had  always  had  hopes  of  him. 

"The  enemy  made  three  attacks  that  night,  be- 
ginning at  seven  in  the  evening  and  repeating  them- 
selves at  intervals  of  about  three  hours.  Their  guns 


THE  OLD  GUARD  163" 

-> 

were  busy  all  the  time,  first  shrapnel  in  bursts  of  six 
or  eight,  then  H.E.  I  was  kept  pretty  busy  dodging 
the  shrapnel  as  I  had  to  negotiate  that  street  several 
times  during  the  night — was  adjutant  just  then — 
to  get  down  to  the  signal  office,  and  send  messages  to 
Brigade  Headquarters.  I  didn't  mind  the  shrap- 
nel; it  was  the  H.E.  that  troubled  me.  You  know 
what  a  'strafe*  with  heavies  is  like.  You  seem  to 
be  taking  a  long  breath  between  each  shell  and 
you've  no  sooner  ceased  wondering  where  the  first 
is  going  to  burst  than  you  start  wondering  about  the 
next.  Also  you  feel  as  if  the  enemy  guns  had  all 
got  you  specially  'registered'  and  were  concentrating 
on  you  personally.  Which  is  rather  egotistical 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  Of  course,  one  gets 
over  that  obsession  after  a  time,  and  you  make  up 
your  mind  that  some  inscrutable  Power  has  long  ago 
determined  that  you're  either  going  to  get  hit  or 
you're  not,  and  that  whether  you  loiter  or  whether 
you  hustle  it'll  all  be  the  same  in  the  end. 

"The  air  above  us  seemed  alive  with  frightened 
birds — first  a  flutter,  then  a  scream,  and  then,  as 
the  enemy  began  to  shorten  their  fuses,  we  got  the 
shell-bursts  right  in  the  middle  of  the  village — 
followed  by  a  roaring  landslide  of  falling  masonry. 
And  all  along  the  line  stretching  right  away  up  to 
Ypres  the  same  thing  was  going  on.  A  brick  landed 
on  my  foot  from  nowhere  as  though  thrown  by  a  foot- 
pad. I  must  have  looked  like  a  ghost,  for  my  face 
was  running  with  sweat  and  the  white  mortar  settling 
on  it  formed  a  sort  of  plaster-mask.  There  were 


164  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

hayricks  and  barns  in  the  village,  and  as  these  caught 
fire  one  after  the  other,  each  rick  glowed  like  a 
thousand  red-hot  needles.  One  patch  of  the  street 
would  be  light  as  day,  the  next  dark  as  night,  and 
the  'walking  cases'  rushed  the  one  and  then  paused 
to  take  breath  in  the  other.  Their  figures  made 
monstrous  shadows  against  the  wall  as  they  hurried 
past.  But  there  was  really  no  cover  anywhere, 
and  along  our  line  every  man  who  moved  was  a 
mark  for  a  German  rifle.  Looking  down  the  trench 
— it  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  only  a  shallow  furrow — 
you  could  see  a  row  of  gleaming  bayonets,  and  oc- 
casionally a  white  face,  as  a  man  emptied  his  maga- 
zine and  fingered  his  pouch  for  another  clip.  There 
was  a  most  infernal  orchestra  of  sound — machine- 
guns  going  like  kettle-drums,  the  buzz,  the  crack, 
and  the  twang  of  rifle-bullets  like  stringed  instru- 
ments, and  at  quick  intervals  the  tremendous  bass 
of  the  artillery  and  the  crash  and  roar  of  falling 
houses.  The  only  sound  you  never  heard  was  a 
human  voice.  Odd,  isn't  it?  The  more  resolute  an 
English  soldier  is,  the  more  silent  he  seems  to  be- 
come. The  men  must  have  had  a  raging  thirst — 
you  know  how  dry  one's  throat  gets  at  these  times — 
they  had  long  ago  emptied  their  water-bottles,  and 
it  was  impossible  for  the  ration  parties  to  get  up. 

"It  was  in  one  of  these  journeys  that  I  met 
Yeoman.  He  was  coming  down  from  the  firing-line, 
and  when  I  saw  him  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was 
covered  with  blood — he  looked  just  as  if  he'd  cut 
his  throat.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  half  his  left  jaw 


THE  OLD  GUARD  165 

had  been  shattered  and  the  bullet  must  have  just 
missed  the  jugular  vein.  I  fancy  it  was  a  flat-nosed 
bullet.  His  left  wrist  was  shattered,  too.  He'd  been 
sent  back  by  his  platoon  commander.  I  didn't 
take  much  notice  of  him — there  were  too  many  other 
things  to  think  about. 

"I  looked  in  at  our  First-Aid  Station,  just  beyond 
Battalion  Headquarters  where  the  M.O.,  half-dead 
with  exhaustion,  was  working  by  candle-light  in 
overalls  amidst  a  strange  smell  of  blood,  iodoform, 
methylated  spirit,  and  hay.  It  was  a  big  barn;  a 
row  of  men  were  laid  out  like  mummies  on  the  floor 
awaiting  their  turn — some  had  given  up  waiting! 
— with  the  soles  of  their  boots  upturned.  It's  odd 
how  expressive  a  pair  of  feet  can  be — you  heard 
very,  few  cries  of  pain,  but  I  noticed  the  boots  of 
more  than  one  man  beating  together  while  the  rest 
of  his  body  lay  as  still  as  a  statue. 

"About  an  hour  later  I  met  Yeoman  going  up  to 
the  trenches  again,  his  face  swathed  in  bandages. 
I  asked  what  on  earth  he  was  doing  up  there,  and 
hadn't  the  M.O.  sent  him  down  to  a  Casualty  Clear- 
ing Station  ?  I  suppose  he  thought  he  was  going  to  get 
'crimed'  again  for  disobeying  a  lawful  command,  and 
he  was  horribly  apologetic  about  it.  I  say  horribly 
because  he  spoke  thickly  like  a  man  who's  forgotten 
to  put  his  false  teeth  back.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  all  the 
teeth  on  the  left  side  of  his  jaw  had  been  knocked  out. 

'  Thorry,  thir,'  he '  said,  'but  I  heard  we'd  no 
rethervth  left.' 

"He  went  back  to  the  firing-line.     He  was  hit 


i66  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

twice  again  that  night,  but  he  carried  on  and  only 
retired  with  the  rest  at  four  in  the  morning,  when 
we  were  relieved — not  much  relief  about  it — by  the 
K.O.S.B.  and  went  into  support.  He  must  have 
lost  a  lot  of  blood. 

"In  that  one  day — or  rather  night — we  had  four 
officers  killed,  eleven  wounded,  and  rather  more  than 
three  hundred  N.C.O.'s  and  men  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing.  You  know  the  rest.  The  long  dreary 
winter  near  Richebourg.  By  the  time  spring  came 
there  were  just  fifty  men  left  in  the  Battalion  of 
those  that  embarked  on  August  I4th  at  Avon- 
mouth.  The  rest  were  all  new  drafts.  Yeoman? 
He  got  the  D.C.M.  Also  he  got  a  stripe  as  lance- 
corporal,  and  what  is  much  more  extraordinary  he 
kept  it  Eventually  he  became  platoon-sergeant. 
His  ch*racter  quite  changed — No!  it  developed. 
He  found  himself.  Perhaps  he'd  never  really  had  a 
fair  chance  before.  He'd  had  a  rough  time  before  he 
enlisted,  poor  as  a  church  mouse  and  as  hungry. 

"  Do  you  know,  G ,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 

that  there's  something  wrong  with  our  social  values 
in  time  of  peace.  We  give  a  brute  who  kicks  his  wife 
a  fine  with  the  option  of  a  month's  I.H.L.,  and  the 
man  who  pinches  a  pheasant  gets  three  without  any 
option  at  all.  Why  is  it  that  the  law  of  England 
has  always  been  so  damned  tender  to  offences  against 
the  person  and  so  'shirty'  about  offences  against 
property?  Why  is  it  that  if  a  man  steals  a  loaf  of 
bread  he  gets  'crimed/  while  if  he  grinds  the  faces 
of  the  poor  by  profiteering  he  gets — well,  knighted  for 


THE  OLD  GUARD  167 

a  subscription  to  party  funds?  My  men  brought 
nothing  into  the  world  and  it's  quite  certain  they 
took  nothing  out.  The  nation  gave  them  a  shilling 
a  day  and  valued  them  accordingly,  but,  my  God! 
they  repaid  that  shilling — paid  it  with  usury. 
They're  all  dead.  Or  else  they're  maimed  and 
broken  for  life.  And  there  was  a  time  before  the  war 
when  not  a  damned  potman  would  serve  'em  in 
uniform;  perhaps  it'll  be  like  that  again! 

"What  is  it  Kipling  says  ?  'Oh,  it's  Tommy  this 
and  Tommy  that,  and  chuck  him  out,  the  brute/ 
'Militarism,'  you  know!  I'm  not  saying  that  the 
men  hadn't  their  faults,  but  you  know  what  a 
'New  Model'  the  old  Army  became  after  the  Boer 
War.  There  were  very  few  'bad  hats'  in  it,  and 
even  Yeoman  wasn't  a  bad  sort — in  fact,  he  was 
a  damned  good  sort.  You  know  I  often  think  that 
there  was  something  wrong  with  a  society  which 
could  offer  nothing  better  to  chaps  like  him  than 
twelve  shillings  a  week  with  rheumatism  and  the 
'Union'  at  the  end  of  it  (unless  he  reached  seventy 
and  got  a  beggarly  five  bob)  and  which  could  give 
him  nothing  better_jn  the  long  winter  evenings  than 
the  village  tap-room.  Perhaps  that's  why  he 
poached — and  enlisted.  It  always  seemed  to  me 
that  he  felt  life  had  never  given  him  what  he  wanted 
and  had  a  right  to  ask,  and  that  he  was  always  look- 
ing for  something.  He  found  it  at  last." 

"What?     Where?" 

"On  the  Menin  ridge.  A  bullet.  He  died  in  my 
arms  the  same  night." 


XI 

THE  BATMAN 

AWE  turned  into  the  road  to  Cosham,  our 
car  met  a  "W.D."  wagon,  and  the  driver 
of  the  wagon  dropped  his  right  hand  smartly. 

"When  I  first  put  this  uniform  on,"  said  the 
subaltern  with  a  faint  reminiscence  of  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan,  "I  was  saluted  in  succession  by  a  police- 
man, a  commissionaire,  a  boy-scout,  and  a  member 
of  the  Women's  Emergency  Corps.  I  felt  very 
embarrassed.  What  ought  I  to  have  done?" 

"The  first  two  had  probably  been  soldiers,  the 
third  hoped  to  be  one,"  said  the  Major.  "You 
should  have  saluted  all  three." 

"But  what  about  the  girl?" 

"Kiss  her,  of  course,"  said  the  Major,  gravely. 
"A  kiss  is  a  salute.  There's  scriptural  authority 
for  it." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  the  subaltern  wist- 
fully. 

"What  a  target!"  exclaimed  the  Major  as  a 
platoon  in  close  formation  appeared  on  the  sky- 
line. "Tangent-sight  at  eight  hundred — I  think." 

"But  supposing  she  boxed  my  ears?"  persisted 
the  subaltern. 

"That's   all   right;  the  penalty   for  striking  an 

168 


THE  BATMAN  169 

officer  on  active  service  is  DEATH,"  replied  the 
Major.  "You  could  explain  that  to  her.  She 
can't  have  it  both  ways." 

"By  jove!  that's  true,"  said  the  subaltern.  He 
began  to  look  thoughtful. 

"That  reminds  me"  .  .  .  said  the  Major, 
meditatively.  "Eyes  RIGHT,"  he  said  suddenly  as 
he  caught  sight  of  the  subaltern  exchanging  glances 
with  a  buxom  wench  on  the  left  of  our  car  as  we  shot 
past. 

"It  reminds  you,"  I  prompted. 

"Of  a  batman — a  fellow  I  had  in  the  South  African 
War.  Such  a  batman!  As  a  rule,  if  a  batman's 
honest  he's  not  intelligent,  and  if  he's  intelligent  he's 
not  honest.  This  fellow  was  both.  He  made  my 
buttons  shine  like  stars,  he  polished  my  boots  till  I 
could  see  my  face  in  them,  and  he  never  once  forgot 
to  call  me  in  the  morning.  When  I  was  sick  he  nursed 
me  like  a — like  a " 

"Like  a  woman!"  said  the  subaltern  enthusias- 
tically. 

"Well,  yes,  like  a  woman.  He  made  tea  that  was 
neither  black  as  ink  nor  sweet  as  syrup.  He  did  not 
smoke,  neither  did  he  drink.  He  took  as  much  care 
of  my  horse  as  he  did  of  me.  He  never  told  a  lie— 
except  once.  And  he  never  whistled." 

"His  name,  please!"  I  said,  taking  out  my  pocket- 
book.  I  have  had  two  batmen — one  honest,  the 
other  intelligent.  I  am  looking  for  a  third. 

"That  I  can't  tell  you.  No,  I  don't  mean  I 
won't,  I  mean  I  can't.  I  don't  know  it — I  never  did. 


i;o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

I  can  give  you  his  address,  though,  if  that's  any  good. 
'Galveston,  Texas/ — at  least  that's  the  post-mark. 

D'you   think   if   I    knew   his    name    I'd But 

I'm  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse.  Well,  I'll 
tell  you  the  story.  I  had  a  commission  in  Trelaw- 
ney's  Horse — they  gave  me  a  commission  in  the 
regulars  afterward — which  you  may  remember  was 
a  well-known  unit  of  irregulars.  And  a  very 
hefty  lot  they  were.  A  very  scratch  lot,  too — 
colonials,  mining  engineers,  remittance-men,  soldiers 
of  fortune,  and  so  on.  South  Africa  was  swarming 
with  levies  of  that  kind,  each  one  differing  from  the 
other  in  arms,  kit,  formation,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
They  were  enough  to  make  an  R.T.O.'s  hair  stand 
on  end.  But,  as  I  say,  a  hefty  body  of  men  and  not 
one  of  'em  but  knew  how  to  sit  a  horse  as  soon  as 
look  at  it. 

"Well,  one  day  a  likely-looking  youth  with  an 
American  accent  you  could  cut  with  a  knife  came 
into  camp  and  said  he  guessed  he'd  join  us.  There 
wasn't  much  attestation  red  tape  about  Trelaw- 
ney's  Horse;  if  it  comes  to  that  I  daresay  half  of 
'em  could  have  been  court-martialled  for  fraudulent 
enlistment.  All  a  recruit  was  asked  was:  'Can 
you  ride  ?  Can  you  shoot  ? '  and  if  the  troop-sergeant 
was  satisfied  no  one  asked  any  more  questions. 
In  fact,  it  was  about  as  tactful  to  ask  a  man  in 
Trelawney's  Horse  about  his  past  as  it  would  be  to 
ask  an  officer  under  arrest  about  his  future.  It  was 
a  case  of  Omne  ignotum  pro  magnifico  which,  you 
may  remember,  in  the  revised  version  means,  'If 


THE  BATMAN  171 

a  man's  conduct-sheet  is  lost,  his  character  is  ex- 
emplary.' 

"'Can  you  ride?'  said  the  sergeant.  'I  can  that/ 
said  the  Yank.  'Oh,  you  can,  can  you?'  said  the 
sergeant.  'Very  well,  let's  see  you  put  that  mare 
through  her  paces.' 

"The  mare  was  a  stiff  proposition,  too  stiff  for 
most  of  us,  and  Trelawney's  Horse  gathered  round 
expecting  to  see  some  fun.  So  did  the  mare,  I 
fancy,  for  the  moment  the  Yank  got  on  her  back  she 
started  bucking  for  all  she  was  worth.  She  reared 
and  plunged,  and,  finding  that  no  use,  tried  to  bolt. 
She  had  a  mouth  of  iron.  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story 
short,  in  half  an  hour  that  mare  was  like  clay  in 
the  hands  of  the  potter.  She  was  all  of  a  lather 
and  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth.  After  that, 
Trelawney's,  who  knew  a  good  horseman  when  they 
saw  one,  all  crowded  round  the  Yank  and  offered 
him  smokes  and  drinks. 

"'I  don't  smoke  and  I  don't  drink,'  he  said. 
'Well,  what  the  hell  do  you  do?'  said  one  of  'em. 
'I  ride,'  he  said  quietly  and  walked  away. 

"I  liked  that  chap,  and  when  I  heard  that  he 
knelt  down  and  said  his  prayers  every  night  in  the 
tent — and  there  were  six  men  to  every  tent — I  liked 
him  all  the  more.  I  wanted  a  batman  and  one  day  I 
offered  'Hop'  — his  name  was  Silas  P.  Hopkins,  but 
we  called  him  'Hop'  for  short — the  job.  He  hesi- 
tated at  first,  which  rather  nettled  me,  the  more  so 
as  it  meant  he'd  draw  five  bob  a  week  extra  pay. 

"  'Well,  if  you  don't  like  being  in  my  service   ...   / 


i;2  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

I  began.  'It  isn't  that,  sir,'  he  said — he  always 
said  'Sir,'  and  generally  saluted,  which  was  more 
than  most  of  'em  did — 'Well,  I'll  take  it  on.' 

"And  he  did. 

"I  soon  found  I'd  done  a  good  stroke  of  business. 
Never  man  batted  like  that  batman.  For  one 
thing  he  used  to  think,  which,  you  may  have  noticed, 
no  batman  ever  does  as  a  rule.  I  never  found  a  hole 
in  my  socks,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Hop  always 
discovered  it  before  I  could  darn  it.  I  never  lost  a 
shirt  button,  because  as  soon  as  it  got  loose  Hop 
sewed  it  on  tight  again.  And  you  must  remember 
that  the  Boer  War  wasn't  like  this  war,  when  if  you're 
'deficient  in  articles'  you  can  send  a  chit  to  your 
hosiers  or  your  tailors  in  the  West  End  and  get  your 
order  executed  and  the  goods  delivered  in  France 
inside  of  a  week.  No !  we  were  up  country,  far  from 
railhead,  with  our  lines  of  communication  con- 
stantly being  cut,  and  our  supply  columns  looted 
by  brother  Boer,  some  of  whose  commandoes  hadn't 
one  whole  pair  of  trousers  between  them.  So  they 
always  raided  our  columns,  if  they  could,  whenever 
they  wanted  a  change  of  underclothing,  and  we  often 
went  short.  I  remember  a  picnic  outside  Pretoria 
— but  I'll  tell  you  that  another  time. 

"Well,  the  result  was  that  Trelawney's  Horse  were 
eventually  rigged  out  like  a  fancy-dress  ball,  and 
were  decollete  enough  to  satisfy  the  producer  of  a 
theatrical  revue.  But  I  myself  never  wanted  for 
anything — shirts,  socks,  and  so  on — Hop  saw  to  all 
that.  I  never  asked  any  questions — as  I  half 


THE  BATMAN  173 

suspected  he  pinched  'em,  and  I  didn't  want  to  be 
c.-m.'d  as  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  'knowing  them 
to  have  been  stolen,'  as  the  charge-sheet  puts  it. 
All  I  knew  was  that  my  kit  was  like  the  widow's 
cruse  of  oil — there  was  always  petrol  in  the  tank. 

"Then  he  was  as  punctual  as  zero.  He  always 
called  me  to  the  second,  and  while  I  was  sponging 
myself  down  in  my  collapsible  tub  he'd  be  busy  about 
the  tent  laying  out  my  shaving  kit,  and  shaking  the 
sand  and  locusts  out  of  my  things,  until  he'd  say 
'Anything  else,  sir  ? ' 

"But  there  was  never  anything  else — he'd  always 
seen  to  that.  As  you  may  imagine,  the  fame  of  my 
batman  got  noised  abroad  for,  like  the  virtuous 
woman,  his  price  was  far  above  rubies.  Every 
brother  officer  wanted  him,  and  some  of  'em  tried 
to  bribe  him  into  their  service  until,  getting  wind  of 
their  fraternal  designs,  I  told  him  I  proposed  to 
double  the  five  bob.  He  wouldn't  take  it.  Tm 
quite  satisfied,  sir,'  he  said. 

"Naturally,  we  got  rather  friendly,  and  I  got  to 
treat  him  more  and  more  as  a  warrant  officer  than 
an  ordinary  trooper,  and  sometimes  I  tried  to  get 
him  to  talk  about  himself.  But  he  always  headed 
me  off.  All  I  could  learn  was  that  his  father  was  a 
big  mule  contractor  in  Texas,  and  that  he'd  been 
sent  over  from  New  Orleans  with  a  cargo  of  mules 
to  Durban  and,  after  unloading,  had  thought  he'd 
like  to  go  up  country.  He  always  rather  kept  him- 
self to  himself. 

"He  was  certainly  a  wonderful  chap  with  horses. 


174  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

You  know  what  delicate  beasts  Argentines  are;  well, 
he  cured  mine  of  a  bad  attack  of  sand  colic  and  he 
was  as  particular  about  preparing  my  horse's  bran 
mash  as  he  was  about  my  breakfast — which  is  saying 
a  good  deal.  And  no  coolie  or  black  boy  or  up- 
country  Jew  storekeeper  could  ever  take  a  rise  out 
of  him — he  used  to  do  all  my  shopping.  Well,  one 
day  we  were  in  for  a  great  Boer  drive  near  Harte- 
beestefontein,  the  whole  squadron  being  strung  out 
like  a  paper-chase.  We'd  crossed  a  drift  and  had 
come  out  on  some  flat  country  all  pimpled  with  ant- 
hills, when  we  sighted  a  Boer  farm  and  the  usual 
kraals  in  the  middle  of  some  blue  gum  trees.  The 
next  moment  I  heard  the  'plip-plop'  of  a  Mauser, 
and  my  batman,  who  was  next  me,  suddenly  gave  a 
kind  of  shriek  and  I  saw  him  fall  over  his  horse's 
neck  like  a  sack.  We  soon  rushed  the  farm  and 
cleared  it  out,  and  I  then  turned  my  attention  to  my 
batman.  Fortunately,  the  horse  hadn't  bolted  and 
let  me  come  up  to  him.  I  caught  hold  of  his  rider 
in  my  arms  and  laid  him  on  the  ground.  He  was 
a  very  light  weight  and  rather  slender.  By  that 
time  he  had  fainted.  There  was  a  dark  stain  on 
his  tunic,  the  colour  of  port-wine;  he'd  been  hit  in 
the  chest.  I  unbuttoned  his  shirt,  and  as  I  did  so  I 
noticed  two  little  bright  rods  of  steel  stuck  through 
it.  I  wondered  what  the  devil  they  were  for.  Then 
I  cut  away  his  singlet — and — you  could  have  knocked 
me  over  with  a  feather.  My  batman  was  a  woman! 
"So  that's  how  I  was  kept  in  new  socks!"  was  the 
first  thing  I  said  to  myself  as  I  looked  at  the  knit- 


THE  BATMAN  175 

ting-needles.  And  I  kept  on  saying.  'Plain  and 
purl!  Purl  and  plain!'  As  you  know  one  gen- 
erally does  say  something  idiotically  trivial  like  that 
when  one  gets  a  big  shock.  I  suppose  it's  nature's 
way  of  keeping  one  going  until  one's  mind  recovers 
its  balance.  Perhaps  you'll  think  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  so  surprised,  and  you  may  think  me  an 
ass.  But  telling  a  story's  one  thing,  living  it  is 
quite  another,  and  the  story  I'm  telling  you  was 
spread  over  many  months,  in  the  course  of  which  I 
had  many  other  things  than  Hop  to  think  about. 

"Well,  my  first  thought  was  how  to  get  him — I 
mean  her — away,  and  my  second  how  to  keep  her 
secret,  for  my  sake  as  well  as  hers.  I  should  never 
have  heard  the  end  of  it  in  the  regiment  if  it  had  got 
about.  Of  course  I  couldn't  leave  my  troop,  but 
after  much  trouble  I  got  hold  of  a  Cape  cart  and  got 
Hop  fixed  up  in  it  and  sent  back  one  of  my  men 
whom  I  could  trust  as  escort,  giving  him  a  con- 
fidential chit  to  the  M.O.  in  which  I  explained 
matters  and  asked  him  to  do  all  he  could  for  the 
poor  girl. 

"  By  the  time  that  I  had  completed  these  arrange- 
ments she  had  recovered  consciousness  and  told  me 
something  of  her  story.  It  seems  she  had  been 
brought  up  on  her  father's  ranch,  and  when  her 
brother  fell  sick  and  couldn't  take  charge  of  the 
consignment  of  mules  she  offered  to  go  in  his  place 
disguised  as  a  teamster — and  went.  We  hadn't 
much  time  for  a  pow-wow,  and  when  she'd  finished 
telling  her  story  it  was  time  for  me  to  get  a  move  on. 


176  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

'Good-bye,  Hop  .  .  .  and  God  bless  you/  I 
said.  'My  name's  Lucy/  she  said  with  a  look  I've 
never  forgotten.  I  sometimes  think — but  no  matter. 
And  it  was  only  when  that  cart  had  disappeared  over 
the  veldt  like  a  ship  at  sea  that  I  suddenly  remem- 
bered I'd  forgotten  to  ask  her  her  surname — and  her 
home  address.  And  I  never  got  to  know  it.  By 
the  time  we  got  back  from  our  drive  of  the  Boers 
and  I  was  able  to  communicate  with  the  Base,  I 
found  she'd  been  evacuated  and  sent  back  to  the 
States.  I  tried  hard  to  trace  her  but  it  was  a  wash- 
out. But  once  a  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
day  she  entered  my  service,  I  got  a  card  without  any 
address  and  only  two  words  on  it  'From  Lucy.' 
That  happened  every  year  until  two  years  ago — I 
have  heard  nothing  since.  I  sometimes  think " 

The  Major  stopped  abruptly  and  gazed  straight 
in  front  of  him  at  the  wind-screen.  There  was 
something  almost  wistful  in  his  look. 

The  subaltern  broke  the  silence.  "Women  are 
topping,"  he  said. 

Neither  the  Major  nor  I  made  any  reply.  The 
subaltern  is  very  young,  and,  as  is  the  way  of  youth, 
he  sometimes  thinks  his  discoveries  are  new. 


XII 

THE  ATTACK 

-(July  i,  1916) 

I 

HE  BELONGED  to  the  bombing  party  of  No. 
I  Platoon,  A  Company,  of  "the  Springers." 
You  will  not  find  them  under  that  name  in 
the  Army  List,  but  in  the  Sergeants'  Mess,  where 
oral  tradition  dies  hard,  the  long-service  N.C.O.s 
never  call  the  regiment  anything  else — and  thereby 
keep  alive  the  memory  of  a  great  day  in  the  Pen- 
insula when  the  regiment  cleared  a  six-foot  wall  in  a 
bayonet  charge.  No  one  ever  "writes  up"  the 
Springers,  for  they  do  not  wear  kilts  and  are  not  as 
the  "tin-bellies"  who  sit  mounted  at  street  corners, 
spreading  broad  their  pipe-clayed  phylacteries. 
They  are  merely  one  of  those  unobtrusive  line  reg- 
iments which  go  on  from  generation  to  generation 
adding  fresh  laurels  to  their  colours  and  saying  very 
little  about  it,  for  they  are  men  of  few  words  and 
they  speak  a  dialect  which  is  unintelligible  to  any 
one  except  a  West-country  man.  They  have  "  Penin- 
sula," "Ferozeshah,"  and  "Sobraon,"  on  their 
colours,  and  they  can  now  add  the  most  coveted 
name  in  military  annals,  for  they  were  at  Mons. 
They  have  their  own  libretto  for  the  bugle-calls; 
and  when  they  talk  of  Defaulters'  Call  they  do  not 

177 


178  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

speak  of  "Angels'  Whisper."  Also  they  have  a  feud 
with  a  certain  Irish  regiment,  dating  from  the  day 
when  they  arrived  in  Dublin  and  lowered  its  colours 
at  "footer."  Their  homespun  speech  is  pure  Anglo- 
Saxon,  the  same  as  their  fathers  spake  when  they 
broke  the  Danes  at  Ethandune.  It  is  a  soft  speech, 
like  honey  in  the  mouth;  those  who  speak  it  are  slow 
to  anger  and  of  great  kindness.  But  they  are  very 
unpleasant  when  they  are  roused,  and  though  they 
can  give  quarter  they  never  take  it. 

John  Knighton  had  kept  sheep  on  a  hillside,  one  of 
those  bold  escarpments  of  the  North  Downs  where 
the  chalk  breaks  into  greensand,  falling  away  into 
the  great  dairy-farming  plains  of  coral  rag.  When 
the  war  came  like  a  thief  in  the  night  his  mental 
horizon  was  as  bounded  as  his  physical  environ- 
ment; he  knew  a  great  deal  about  sheep-dip  and 
could  tell  you  all  about  the  healing  virtues  of  the 
rest-harrow,  but  France  was  for  him  merely  a  geo- 
graphical expression,  recalling  painful  hours  over 
a  primer  in  the  village  school.  But  he  knew  many 
things  that  a  town-bred  teacher  did  not  know;  he 
could  tell  the  seasons  and  the  time  of  night  by  the 
stars,  and  when  he  looked  at  Orion  he  needed  not  the 
Pole  Star  to  tell  him  where  the  true  North  was.  He 
knew  where — and  in  what  season — to  look  for  the 
bat's-wings  of  Cassiopeia  and  the  ;great  square  of 
Pegasus.  But  he  would  have  been  incredulous  if 
you  had  told  him  that  the  same  stars  looked  down 
upon  the  fields  of  France. 

One  day  in  April,  1915,  when  the  lambing  season 


THE  ATTACK  \  ,  179 

was  over,  John  Knighton  walked  into  the  nearest 
recruiting  office  with  a  few  chattels  tied  up  in  a  red 
handkerchief  with  large  white  spots  and  announced 
his  wish  to  enlist.  If  you  had  asked  him  his  reason 
for  this  momentous  decision  he  would  have  given 
you  every  reason  but  the  true  one,  which  was  that 

Major  S ,  late  of  the  Springers,  now  on  half-pay, 

but  still  a  foster-father  to  the  regiment,  had  come 
to  John  Knighton's  village  one  day,  and  at  a  recruit- 
ing meeting  in  the  village  schoolroom,  with  the 
squire  in  the  chair,  had  told  them  things  which  set 
John  Knighton's  teeth  on  edge. 

In  his  lonely  night-watches  on  the  Downs,  where 
Neolithic  man  had  fashioned  his  arrow-heads  of 
flint  and  the  Roman  auxiliary  cast  his  javelin,  he 
had  pondered  deeply  on  these  things,  and  though 
he  could  not  have  told  you  where  Belgium  was  on 
the  map,  he  knew  that  there  or  thereabouts  evil 
stalked  upon  the  earth.  And  thinking  upon  these 
things  it  seemed  to  him  that  he,  John  Knighton, 
must  go  forth  to  combat  it.  He  was  a  likely-looking 
man,  tall  and  deep-chested,  and,  although  he  did  not 
know  it,  he  came  of  a  family  which,  five  hundred 
years  before,  had  done  mighty  things  with  the  long- 
bow at  the  village  butts  in  a  field  which  to  this  day 
is  known  as  the  "Butt-haye."  He  had  the  terra- 
cotta skin  of  perfect  health,  and  the  M.O.,  as  he 
watched  him  jump  the  form,  and  hop  round  the 
room  on  his  left  foot,  and  then  on  his  right,  felt  that 
he  could  dispense  with  the  usual  tattoo  upon  his 
chest-bones. 


i8o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  mazes  of  platoon-drill  troubled  him  at  first, 
but  at  observation  he  had  nothing  to  learn,  and  on 
the  range  he  soon  turned  out  a  first-class  shot.  He 
was  even  as  good  with  the  bayonet — pitching  hay  is 
quite  a  good  apprenticeship — and  there  were  few 
who  could  show  better  form  on  the  assault-course. 
Thus  it  was,  that  after  a  few  lessons  in  bombing  he 
found  himself  No.  I  bayonet-man  in  the  bombing- 
party  of  his  platoon.  And  one  day  the  company 
orderly  sergeant  read  out  his  name  from  the  nominal 
roll  and  he  found  himself  warned  for  an  overseas 
draft. 

II 

"It  bain't  comin*  off,  I  do  think,"  said  John 
Knighton,  as  he  "stood  to"  one  rosy  morning  in 
June  in  a  chalk  trench  upon  the  Somme.  He  had 
come  there  after  months  of  duty  in  the  trenches  in 
Flanders,  followed  by  a  stimulating  interlude  in 
carrying  "spit-locked"  trenches  at  a  kind  of  dress- 
rehearsal  of  an  attack  behind  G.H.Q.,  at  which  a  flag 
did  duty  for  a  barrage  and  a  tape  indicated  the 
objective.  He  liked  the  rolling  hills  of  the  Somme, 
for  they  reminded  him  of  his  native  Downs.  But  he 
chafed  at  a  delay  the  reasons  for  which  were  wholly 
obscure  to  him,  and  although  every  time  they  were 
relieved  he  saw  behind  the  lines  an  increasing  accu- 
mulation of  "dumps"  and  timber  and  hobbled  horses 
and  a  mighty  concentration  of  guns  and  limbers,  his 
incredulity  grew  upon  him. 

"Thic  year,  next  year,  zumtime,  never,"  said  his 


THE  ATTACK  181 

comrade  Jacob  Winterbourne,  as  he  blew  upon 
imaginary  petals.  "It'll  be  about  hay-making 
time  zoon,  in  Broad  Hinton,  John.  Wonder  whether 
any  on  us  'ull  ever  see  the  wold  place  again?"  He 
wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  as  he 
finished  his  rum  ration. 

But  at  that  John  Knighton  said  nothing. 

The  colonel  of  "the  Springers"  had  his  own 
opinion  as  to  the  date  of  the  opening  performance 
for  which  there  had  been  so  many  rehearsals,  but  he 
kept  his  own  counsel.  He  had  attended  a  seven 
days'  course  of  lectures  at  the  Army  School  about  a 
week  earlier,  hearing  many  things  which  he  already 
knew  and  a  few  which  he  did  not.  And  four  days 
later  he  had  attended  a  divisional  conference  of 
battalion  O.C.'s  and  brigadiers,  while  a  major- 
general  from  "Operations"  at  G.H.Q.  had  talked 
intimately  with  a  pointer  in  his  hand  before  an 
enormous  map.  The  "I"  summaries  had  also  been 
more  than  usually  explicit  of  late  as  to  the  strength 
and  location  of  the  German  units  opposite  the  line, 
their  inquiries  being  assisted  by  a  large  collection  of 
shoulder-straps,  a  mild  inquisition  of  the  "third 
degree,"  and  a  collection  of  belles-lettres,  the  trophies 
of  some  carefully-organized  raids.  The  A.D.M.S. 
had  also  been  mobilizing  his  field  ambulances,  and  an 
order  had  gone  down  to  the  Base  to  evacuate  and 
prepare  many  thousands  of  beds.  Also  the  direc- 
torates of  Supplies,  and  Transport,  and  Water,  and 
Railways,  had  been  doing  heavy  night  shifts,  and 
their  caravans  covered  the  face  of  the  earth.  And 


182  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

the  Divisional  A.P.M.,  who  had  been  nearly  worked 
off  his  head  with  traffic  controls,  had  doubled  his 
examining-posts  and  worked  out  a  scheme  of  posi- 
tions for  "battle  police."  And  all  these  vast  forces, 
thus  set  in  train,  although  they  knew  nothing  of  him 
nor  he  of  them,  were  converging  upon  John  Knighton 
like  a  pressure  of  the  atmosphere,  and  were  dark 
with  the  fate  of  him. 

These  things  were  talked  over  in  whispers  by  staff- 
officers  with  blue,  and  red,  and  parti-coloured 
brassards  at  Brigade  and  Divisional  and  Corps 
Headquarters,  until  one  night  at  the  end  of  June  the 
A.A.G.  at  the  Corps  H.Q.,  after  looking  behind  him 
to  see  that  the  mess-sergeant  had  closed  the  door, 
turned  to  the  Camp  Commandant  and  whispered 
something  in  his  ear. 

"Damn  it!"  said  the  Camp  Commandant,  "and 
to  think  we're  here  right  at  the  back  of  the  dress- 
circle.  I  wish  Td  been  able  to  pull  the  leg  of  my 
last  Board.  But  they  wouldn't  pass  me  for  any- 
thing but  light  duty.  And  to  think  my  old  regi- 
ment's up  there.  Well,  here's  luck!" 

Ill 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  men  had  been  numbered 
off  from  the  right  and  one  in  three  posted  for  look  out 
duty.  The  night  was  calm,  but  the  air  drowsy  as 
though  thunder  were  brooding  over  the  earth,  and 
the  illusion  was  heightened  by  sheets  of  flame  which 
flickered  incessantly  in  the  sky.  A  battalion  runner 
arrived  from  Brigade  Headquarters  with  a  message 


THE  ATTACK  183 

for  the  Colonel  in  his  dug-out.  He  opened  the  sheaf 
of  papers  and  saw  the  words  "Operation  Orders." 
He  took  one  glance  at  them  and  then  sent  an  orderly 
to  summon  the  Major  and  the  company  commanders. 
Meanwhile  he  took  out  a  map  and  spread  it  upon 
the  table.  His  adjutant  took  four  tallow  candles 
stuck  in  bottles,  lit  them,  and  placed  a  bottle  on  each 
of  the  four  corners  of  the  map.  The  map  was  covered 
with  irregular  lines  which  in  places  tied  themselves  up 
into  knots  like  congested  veins,  and  double  lines  of 
red  crosses  marched  with  them.  Here  and  there 
were  clusters  of  red  stars  and  occasionally  a  blue 
blot.  The  stars  were  craters;  the  blue  blots  were 
unexploded  mines.  He  was  still  poring  over  this 
chart  when  the  company  commanders  arrived. 

"We  attack  to-morrow,"  he  said  quietly,  as  they 
saluted. 

"At  what  hour,  sir?"  asked  one  of  them  with 
studied  nonchalance. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  Colonel,  "soon  after 
dawn  I  expect.  I  have  not  had  'zero'  yet.  Now, 
gentlemen,  this  is  the  Divisional  objective — 20  x  A 
83  to  20  x  D  72."  And  he  moved  his  pencil  across 
the  rectangle.  "The  compass-bearing  on  which 
the  battalion  will  march  will  be  73  magnetic.  The 
first  and  second  waves  will  take  the  German  first- 
line  trench;  the  third  and  fourth  waves  will  take  the 
second-line  trench.  The  bombing  parties  must 
bomb  their  way  up  the  communication  trenches 
east  of  Nose  Switch,  and  A  company  must  occupy 
the  trench  behind  them." 


i84  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  Colonel  and  the  Adjutant,  together  with  the 
Major  and  the  four  company  commanders,  peered 
at  the  map,  their  heads,  which  were  close  together, 
throwing  great  shadows  on  the  walls  of  the  dug-out 
as  the  Colonel  explained  in  detail  the  nature  of  their 
respective  tasks.  Finally  the  Adjutant  wrote  them 
down  in  duplicate  on  a  "Message  and  Signals"  form, 
and  gave  each  officer  his  copy.  Then  they  went 
their  appointed  ways  to  confer  with  their  platoon 
commanders.  There  were  many  things  to  do,  but 
every  one  of  them  found  time  to  do  another  that 
was  not  in  his  Operation  Orders — they  each  wrote 
a  letter  home. 

The  Colonel  sent  for  an  R.F.A.  subaltern  com- 
manding the  Stokes  guns.  "Your  barrage  will 
commence  at  minus  eight  minutes  and  cease  at 
zero,"  he  read  out,  explaining  circumstantially  that 
they  must  establish  the  said  barrage  from  the  right 
of  trench  A  7/ 1  to  the  left  of  trench  A  7/2  with  a  view 
to  covering  the  enemy's  machine-guns.  And  he 
handed  him  orders  which  told  him  how  many  rounds 
his  sub-sections  were  to  fire  in  the  first  minute,  how 
many  in  the  last,  and  how  many  in  the  six  minutes 
intervening. 

Two  hours  after  midnight  the  runners  arrived  with 
another  message.  It  was  as  brief  as  it  was  fateful. 
It  told  the  Colonel  that  "zero"  had  been  fixed  for 
6.30  A.M. 

The  men  were  called  in  at  4.30  A.M.  for  "Stand 
to,"  and  paraded  in  sections  by  the  corporals.  The 
rum  ration  was  served  out  and  every  man  was  given 


THE  ATTACK  185 

100  extra  rounds  of  ammunition  by  the  company 
sergeant-major.  They  moved  off  by  platoons  up 
the  communication  trench  to  the  assembly  trenches 
which  extended  in  straight  lines,  without  traverses,  be- 
hind the  fire-trenches,  the  trenches  being  about  eighty 
yards  apart.  Every  infantryman  carried  two  empty 
sandbags  stuck  in  his  belt  like  a  pair  of  gloves,  a 
bomb  in  either  pocket,  a  pick  or  a  spade  upon  his 
back,  a  gas-mask  depending  from  his  neck,  and  he 
held  his  rifle  at  the  "carry/*  At  the  head  of  each 
platoon  marched  the  bombing  parties  carrying  their 
little  barrel-shaped  bombs  in  a  nose-bag  attached  to 
their  belts.  The  Lewis  gunners  carried  their  guns 
at  the  slope,  each  man  with  two  "drums"  of  cart- 
ridges strapped  over  his  back.  Every  man  wore  a 
vivid  patch  of  coloured  cloth  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  on  the  back  of  his  tunic  was  a  small  piece  of 
burnished  tin  which  gleamed  in  the  flashes  that  ever 
and  anon  lit  up  the  sky.  For  the  most  part  they 
marched  in  silence  up  the  long  ravine,  but  occa- 
sionally they  chaffed  one  another;  some  of  them 
smoked  cigarettes  with  great  rapidity,  throwing 
them  away  before  they  were  half-consumed. 

As  they  lined  up  in  the  assembly-trenches  John 
Knighton,  who  was  on  the  extreme  left,  pulled  a  large 
tin  watch  out  of  his  pocket  and  shaking  it  solemnly, 
peered  at  it  in  the  pale  light  of  dawn.  The  watch, 
which  he  had  bought  for  five  shillings  one  market- 
day  at  Marlborough,  was  a  subject  of  many  pleas- 
antries in  his  platoon,  for  it  never  kept  time.  But 
John  Knighton  treasured  it  above  rubies  and  was 


1 86  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

accustomed  to  check  its  idiosyncrasies  by  the  stars 
and  the  position  of  the  sun  in  the  heavens.  The 
hour  and  minute  hands  were  at  six  o'clock. 

"  Bist  gwine  to  have  yer  old  ticker  synchronized  by 
the  signalling-officer,  John?"  said  his  neighbour, 
nervously  fingering  the  safety-catch  of  his  rifle. 

"Did  ye  leave  yer  hairloom  to  yer  best  girl  in  yer 
pay-book?"  asked  another.  "Lawk  a  massey, 
look  at  that  girt  'un!" 

There  was  a  gurgling  sound  in  the  air  overhead 
and  a  9.2  shell  burst  on  a  "strong  point"  in  the 
German  lines,  sending  up  a  geyser  of  black  smoke 
which,  as  it  drifted  away,  slowly  formed  the  pattern 
of  a  gigantic  weeping-willow  upon  the  sky.  All 
through  the  night  a  sound  as  of  someone  knocking 
at  a  door  had  been  coming  from  behind  the  lines, 
and  the  air  overhead  was  never  still.  "Fix 
bayonets,"  said  the  platoon  commander  suddenly, 
as  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  with  a  clink  fixed  his 
own  in  the  socket. 

The  hands  of  the  platoon  commander's  watch 
were  at  nineteen  minutes  past  six.  The  tbombard- 
ment  died  away.  There  was  a  lull. 

IV 

At  that  moment  the  subaltern  in  charge  of  the  fire- 
control  of  a  battery  of  field-guns  some  three  thou- 
sand five  hundred  yards  back,  was  waiting  with  a  stop- 
watch in  one  hand  and  a  megaphone  in  the  other 
at  the  elbow  of  the  telephone  orderly  just  beside  the 
battery.  The  Operation  orders  had  been  given  out 


THE  ATTACK  187 

the  night  before;  the  fuses  had  been  set  with  the 
fuse-key,  and  the  corrector  put  at  148.  A  pile  of 
shells  lay  banked  like  drain-pipes  under  a  tarpaulin 
painted  in  a  mottled  pattern  of  greens  and  browns. 
Each  gun-layer  sat  beside  his  gun,  and  the  other 
men  of  the  gun  detachment  knelt  behind,  some 
stripped  to'  their  waists,  others  with  their  shirt- 
sleeves rolled  up  exposing  their  sinewy  arms.  At 
the  other  end  of  that  telephone-wire,  some  three 
thousand  yards  in  front  of  the  battery,  were  the 
Battery  Major  and  the  F.O.O.,  established  in  a  low- 
turfed  emplacement  like  a  grouse-butt.  The  tele- 
phone orderly  suddenly  answered  the  Battery  Major 
through  the  telephone:  "Yes,  sir,"  and  as  he  did  so 
turned  his  eyes .  toward  the  subaltern.  Then  he 
began  repeating  each  monosyllable  of  the  O.C.'s 
message  one  by  one  as  they  came  through.  "Ten, 
nine,  eight,  seven,  six" — the  subaltern  was  strangely 
conscious,  as  he  listened,  with  his  eyes  on  his  stop- 
watch, of  a  scene  on  the  tow-path  at  Oxford  two 
years  ago  when  he  had  sat  leaning  over  an  oar  with  his 
feet  planted  firmly  against  the  stretcher  and  his 
heart  thumping  a  response  to  the  coach's  measured 
tones — "five,  four,  three,  two,  one.  Fire!" 

"Fire!"  shouted  the  subaltern  through  his  mega- 
phone to  the  subalterns  in  charge  of  the  guns. 


The  storm  burst.  Forward  in  the  assembly- 
trenches  it  buffeted  the  ears  of  the  men — a  mighty 
knocking  upon  great  doors,  but  this  time  it  was  as  if 


188  ;  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

blows  were  being  rained  upon  all  the  doors  of  all  the 
houses  ever  built  with  hands.  It  had  broken  on 
them  with  a  sound  as  though  the  sky  above  them 
were  made  of  a  huge  canvas  suddenly  torn  and  rip- 
ped asunder.  A  thousand  field  guns  were  firing 
from  sixteen  to  twenty  rounds  a  minute,  as  fast  as 
the  sweating  gunners  could  open  and  close  the  breech. 
The  sound  grew  more  and  more  insistent,  and  each 
man  in  the  assembly-trenches  looked  at  his  neigh- 
bour with  a  wild  surmise,  shouting  to  make  the  other 
hear.  The  shells  went  spinning  overhead  with  a 
long  metallic  scream.  They  were  H.E.  shells  with 
"delay"  fuses,  and,  as  they  burrowed  into  the  Ger- 
man fire-trench,  they  threw  up  spouts  of  black  earth 
like  waves  upon  a  promontory,  and  black  smoke  rose 
at  even  intervals  above  its  parapet  and  drifted  along 
horizontally  as  though  it  screened  a  line  of  locomo- 
tives travelling  up  a  cutting.  At  the  same  moment 
the  trench-mortars  in  our  evacuated  front  line  began 
to  give  forth  their  dull  thudding  note,  increasing  in 
frequency  as  the  first  minute  passed.  In  the  sap 
in  front  of  it,  two  machine-guns,  traversing  the 
German  front  line  with  a  "two-inch  tap,"  added 
their  rapid  knuckle-rapping  to  the  brazen  fury  of 
the  storm. 

"The  orchestra's  tuning  up,  mates,"  shouted  one 
man  with  a  nervous  laugh;  "Programmes  sixpence 
each."  But  no  one  heard  him.  The  speaker 
glanced  upward.  A  white  cloud,  soft  as  lamb's 
wool,  appeared  above  the  trenches  and  he  suddenly 
collapsed  into  the  bottom  of  the  trench.  At  the 


THE  ATTACK  189 

same  moment  there  was  a  patter  like  rain  on  the 
earth  around  them  and  something  rattled  on  men's 
helmets  like  hail.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  platoon 
commander,  who  was  looking  at  his  wrist-watch. 
Each  man  put  his  left  foot  in  a  foot-hole  cut  in  the 
wall  of  the  trench  and,  reaching  up,  firmly  gripped 
a  stake  in  the  parapet  above  him.  They  leaned 
forward  with  their  chests  against  the  earthen  wall, 
straining  like  hounds  at  the  leash. 

"Now,  men,"  he  said  quietly,  "remember  we're 
the  Springers,  don't  lose  your  heads,  and — "  (a 
whistle  sounded)  "over  you  go."  But  no  one 
heard  this.  John  Knighton  could  see  the  officer's 
lips  moving  as  he  shouted,  but  that  was  all.  He 
saw  also  the  platoon-sergeant  shouting  into  this 
officer's  ear,  but  again  no  sound  reached  him.  They 
took  their  cues  by  sight  and  not  by  hearing.  They 
hauled  themselves  up,  and  with  a  spring  were  over 
the  top.  John  Knighton,  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder,  saw  three  other  waves  behind  him  rising 
up  out  of  the  earth.  He  advanced  at  a  pace  that  was 
neither  a  walk  nor  a  run,  but  something  between 
the  two,  and  made  for  one  of  the  planks  thrown  at 
intervals  across  the  fire-trench.  As  he  crossed  it  he 
saw  the  Stokes  gunners  in  their  emplacements  in  the 
trench  beneath  him  rapidly  taking  their  gun  to 
pieces  to  join  up  with  the  fourth  line;  one  man 
already  had  the  barrel  over  his  shoulder  as  though 
about  to  perform  a  "turn"  with  a  stove-pipe. 

Slipping  through  one  of  the  gaps  cut  overnight  in 
the  intricacies  of  the  "double-apron"  wire,  he  heard 


190  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

above  him  the  thin  whine  of  shrapnel,  and  tongues 
of  flame  appeared  in  the  air  overhead,  followed  by 
scrolls  of  white  smoke.  There  was  a  soft  patter 
as  the  dispersing  bullets  struck  the  earth,  and  he  saw 
men  to  the  right  and  left  of  him  suddenly  fall  out 
of  the  line  as  though  they  had  forgotten  something 

and,  falling,  lie  very  still.     "It  do  seem "  said 

his  neighbour,  Jacob  Winterbourne;  the  sentence 
was  never  finished.  John  passed  on.  His  throat 
was  dry  as  a  furnace,  his  nostrils  were  filled  with  the 
reek  of  burnt  powder,  his  eyes  dazed  with  dust,  and 
the  sweat  ran  down  his  face.  Only  a  moment  before, 
the  gun-layers  back  at  the  batteries,  working  to  time, 
had  turned  the  sight-elevating  gear  of  their  guns  un- 
til the  range-drum  recorded  another  hundred  yards. 
The  German  front-line  trench  was  clearly  visible; 
the  "tail"  of  the  creeping  barrage  had  lifted.  Be- 
hind that  trench  smoke-shells,  each  exploding  as  it 
fell  in  graceful  stems  of  smoke  embroidered  with 
thousands  of  tiny  sparks  of  burning  phosphorus, 
expanded  into  ostrich  feathers  of  white  vapour, 
which  merged  into  a  screen  of  mist.  The  next 
moment  he  had  leapt  into  the  German  trench. 

The  trench  was  pounded  into  the  semblance  of  a 
dried  water-course,  and  here  and  there  lay  the  bloody 
debris  of  what  had  once  been  men.  It  flashed 
through  his  mind  that  this  debris  looked  curiously 
like  the  scarecrows  he  had  seen  in  a  Wiltshire  corn- 
field dismantled  by  the  storm.  He  heard  groans 
and  cries  and  savage  oaths  to  the  right  of  him,  as, 
turning  to  the  left,  he  advanced  at  the  head  of  his 


THE  ATTACK  191 

little  bombing  party.  They  bombed  their  way 
round  a  traverse  as  the  second  wave  with  the  Lewis 
gunners  on  its  left  leapt  into  the  trench.  Pallid  men 
in  dirty  gray  uniforms  crept  out  of  holes  in  the  earth, 
held  up  their  hands,  and  gibbered  for  quarter;  they 
were  bundled  over  the  parapet  and  ran  ridiculously, 
with  arms  above  their  heads,  through  the  oncoming 
waves  of  the  third  and  the  fourth  lines. 

In  a  few  rminutes  the  trench  was  won.  Someone 
set  a  signal  alight  on  the  parapet  where  it  glowed 
like  a  great  red  carnation.  The  signallers  were  talk- 
ing confidentially  to  the  aeroplanes  whose  droning 
hum  came  nearer  and  nearer  as  they  circled  overhead 
and  "banked"  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  As 
they  came  lower  their  drone  changed  to  the  whirr  of 
a  saw-mill,  and,  looking  up,  John  Knighton  could  dis- 
tinguish the  airmen  and  every  rib  of  their  planes. 
Filling  their  empty  sandbags  in  a  fury  of  haste  the 
men  turned  to  "consolidate"  the  parados  while  the 
Lewis  gunners  emptied  their  trays  of  cartridges  over 
the  top  at  the  German  second-line  trench. 

John  Knighton,  turning  up  a  communication 
trench,  heard  a  loud  uproarious  cheer  as  the  third 
wave,  carrying  their  rifles  at  the  short  trail,  leapt 
across  the  trench,  some  ahead,  some  behind,  like  men 
in  a  hurdle  race.  He  noticed  a  machine-gunner 
carrying  the  tripod  fantastically  over  his  shoulders, 
as  a  shepherd  carries  a  lamb,  with  two  legs  in  front. 
Behind  the  fourth  line  the  carrying  party,  consisting 
of  D  Company  with  spare  bombs  and  coils  of  wire 
slung  on  poles,  were  coming  up.  Far  as  the  eye 


I92  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

could  see,  the  whole  countryside  was  alive  with  men 
advancing  like  beaters  in  a  heath  fire.  On  the  left 
an  enemy  machine-gun  was  holding  up  the  bat- 
talion advancing  on  that  side,  until  it  was  shrouded 
in  smoke-bombs  out  of  which,  as  they  alighted, 
wisps  of  smoke,  emerging  like  genii  out  of  a  bottle, 
uncoiled  themselves  into  sulphurous  clouds. 

The  bombing-party  advanced  stealthily  up  the 
communication  trench,  John  Knighton,  as  bayonet- 
man,  leading  the  way  with  the  safety-catch  of  his 
rifle  forward.  Behind  him  was  No.  2,  with  his 
safety-catch  back,  and  then  came  bomb-thrower 
No.  i,  with  a  bomb-carrier  in  turn  behind  him. 
The  trench  suddenly  widened.  "Island  Traverse!" 
shouted  John  Knighton,  and  stood  still  with  his 
rifle  "on  guard."  Bomber  No.  i  took  a  little 
barrel-shaped  object  out  of  his  bag,  slipped  a  ring 
on  to  a  hook  of  his  belt,  and  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand  firmly  clasping  the  lever  against  the  bomb,  he 
pulled  out  the  pin.  He  held  the  bomb  against  his 
hip,  and  then  with  a  mighty  overhand  throw  he 
launched  it  over  the  "  island"  of  sandbags.  There  was 
a  loud  report,  and  a  cloud  of  woolly  white  smoke  rose 
behind  the  traverse.  "Fifteen  yards,  five  yards  left," 
shouted  the  N.C.O.,  and  the  bomber  threw  again. 
Then  John  Knighton  rushed  round  the  traverse  with 
the  rest  of  the  bombing  party  on  his  heels.  The 
Germans  were  bolting  like  rabbits  with  a  ferret 
behind  them.  Ten  yards  behind  the  bombers  a 
subaltern  was  squatting  with  a  Stokes  gun  between 
his  legs  and  popping  off  at  a  "pocket"  of  the  enemy. 


THE  ATTACK  193 

They  were  getting  on.  Half  an  hour  later  the 
Major  was  telephoning  remarks  to  the  Colonel, 
punctuated  by  frequent  gutturals: 

Bombing  attack  is  going  very  well  AC.  AC.  The 
artillery  fire  and  M.  G.  and  L.  G.  from  my  post  at  the 
Mound  are  very  effective,  enemy  keep  bolting  from 
trench  across  the  open  AC.  AC.  I  require  more  S.S.A. 
for  men  and  L.G.s  AC.  AC.  The  latter  have  expended 
approximately  ten  magazines  and  have  done  good  work 
AC.  AC.  At  least  fifty  of  the  enemy  have  been  forced 
out  of  the  switch  trench  and  for  200  yards  east  of  the 

Nose  AC.  AC.  Lieutenant  A has  orders  to  occupy 

the  German  trench  immediately  behind  the  bombing 
party  AC.  AC.  Will  you  arrange  for  artillery  to  lift  off 
the  Nose  ? 

But  there  came  a  lull;  something  had  held  up  our 
left  flank.  Our  left  was  "in  the  air,"  and  John 
Knighton  and  his  bombing  party  found  their  way 
blocked  by  enemy  bombers  rushing  up  a  lateral 
trench  at  its  junction  with  the  communication 
trench  along  which  they  were  forcing  their  way. 
He  saw  a  man  in  front  of  him  raise  his  hand  from  his 
thigh  and  swing  his  arm  over  his  shoulder;  there 
was  a  loud  report,  a  sheet  of  violet  flame,  and  he 
knew  no  more. 

VI 

He  lay  where  he  fell  while  the  battle  surged  over 
and  beyond  him.  Many  hours  later  some  stretcher- 
bearers  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  back  to  the 


194  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

regimental  aid-post.  He  was  given  a  hasty  injection 
of  500  units  of  anti-tetanus  serum,  and  then  passed 
on  in  a  hand-cart  to  the  advanced  dressing  station 
of  the  field  ambulance  where  surgeons  toiled  all 
night  in  their  overalls  under  the  pallid  glare  of  an 
acetylene  lamp.  His  wounds  were  dressed,  a  water- 
proof envelope  was  tied  to  his  buttonhole,  and  he  was 
put  on  one  side  for  despatch  to  the  Casualty  Clearing 
Station.  The  envelope  contained  a  Field  Medical 
Card  and  its  red-coloured  border  told  its  own  tale  to 
the  orderlies  who  passed  him  on.  But  of  what  was 
written  on  that  card  he  knew  nothing.  He  was 
unconscious. 

He  awoke  in  hospital  at  the  Base.  As  he  opened 
his  eyes  he  felt  a  slight  pressure  on  his  wrist  and  he 
saw  the  R.A.M.C.  captain,  whose  hand  was  upon  his 
pulse,  incline  his  head.  At  that  a  nurse  softly 
opened  a  screen  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  and  shut  out 
his  view  of  the  ward.  His  nostrils  were  filled  with  the 
penetrating  smell  of  methylated  spirit  and  iodoform, 
and  in  his  ears  was  a  rhythm  of  crashing  waters 
followed  always  by  the  multitudinous  scramble  of 
pebbles  on  the  beach.  It  was  the  beat  of  three 
succeeding  waves  upon  the  shore — that  last  pul- 
sation of  a  rising  tide — as,  under  a  full  moon  flooding 
the  room  with  her  cold  silver  light,  the  great  waters 
heaved  and  the  cables  of  the  lightship  out  at  sea 
grew  taut.  There  was  a  sudden  lull;  the  tide  was 
on  the  turn.  He  gazed  at  the  screen  and  pictures 
passed  across  it  as  though  his  brain  were  full  of 
lantern-slides.  He  saw  a  thatched  cottage,  dressed 


THE  ATTACK  195 

with  flints,  and  a  red  brick  wall  covered  with  ivy- 
leafed  toad-flax;  he  heard  the  tinkle  of  sheep-bells 
upon  a  green  down,  and  in  his  nostrils  was  the  scent 
of  wild  thyme.  Then  the  picture  faded  away  before 
the  pattern  of  a  gigantic  weeping  willow  outlined  in 
black  crayon  upon  the  moonlit  screen,  and  his  face 
grew  troubled.  The  eyes  in  the  motionless  head 
followed  the  movements  of  the  nurse  by  his  bed  and 
she  saw  a  question  in  them. 

"What  is  it,  sonny?"  she  said,  as  she  stooped  over 
him,  smoothing  his  pillow  and  looking  down  at  the 
leaden  glaze  upon  his  face.  His  thumb  and  fore- 
finger were  plucking  softly  at  the  coverlet. 

She  seemed  very  far  away.  "Cassn't  thee  tell  I, 
lady,  whether  we've  a  took  thuck  trench?" 

She   did   not   know.     But   she   knew  that   John 
Knighton,  who  had  kept  the  faith  that  was  in  him, 
had  finished  his  course.     His  race  was  run. 
/'  Yes,"  she  said. 

The  troubled  look  died  out  of  his  eyes.  He  sighed 
with  deep  content  and,  sighing,  fell  asleep;  and, 
sleeping,  went  out  with  the  tide. 


I 


XIII 

FIELD  PUNISHMENT 

SEE  the  brutal  and  licentious  soldiery  are  get- 
ting it  in  the  neck  again,"  said  my  friend,  Colonel 

K . 

He  had  dropped  his  newspaper,  and  was  staring 
reflectively  at  the  horns  of  an  ibex.  The  ibex  with 
other  trophies  of  migratory  members  adorned  the 
walls  of  a  well-known  service  club  in  which  we  were 
sitting  after  dinner.  I  knew  that  expression  of  his. 
K.  has  been  in  the  army  twenty  years,  and  the 
sudden  change  in  the  public  temper  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war  from  habitual  depreciation  of  the  service 
to  one  of  impassioned  flattery  had  left  him  surprised, 
but  incredulous.  Wherefore,  when  the  sacramental 
words  about  "the  military  caste"  made  one  of  their 
inevitable  appearances  in  a  newspaper  leader,  the 
Colonel  always  went  one  better  and  penitentially 
referred  to  himself  and  all  officers  as  brutal  and 
licentious. 

"Well,  what  have  we  been  doing  now,  sir?"  I 
replied. 

"Field  Punishment,"  said  K.  laconically.  "Some 
fellow  in  the  newspaper  says  it's  the  mark  of 
the  beast.  'Militarism,'  you  know,  and  all  that. 
It  reminds  me,"  and  he  measured  the  length  of  the 

196 


FIELD  PUNISHMENT  197 

ibex's  horns  with  his  eye.  "That  soldier  was  a  holy 
terror,"  he  added  inconsequently. 

"Go  on,  sir,"  I  said,  encouragingly.  I  knew  he 
had  a  story  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

"So  I  will  in  a  moment.  But,  talking  about 
F.P.  and  particularly  F.P.  No.  i.  I  see  they 
say  it's  degrading.  Perhaps  it  is.  But  is  there 
anything  half  as  degrading  as  being  cashiered — eh! 
what?" 

"I  have  yet  to  hear  of  it,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  what's  the  penalty  for  an  officer  being 
drunk  on  active  service?  Cashiering,  or  dismissal 
which  amounts  to  much  the  same  thing.  And  then 
FINIS.  He's  a  marked  man  ever  afterward — black- 
balled in  clubs,  ostracized  in  society,  an  object  for 
the  contempt  of  some  and  the  pity  of  others.  And 
what's  your  private  get?  Eighty-four  days  F.P. 
and  forfeiture  of  pay — rarely  more,  usually  less. 
And  who's  the  wiser?  His  field  conduct-sheet  isn't 
public  property.  He's  got  to  square  the  account 
with  his  wife,  of  course — when  she  writes  and  asks 
why  her  allotment  has  been  stopped — which  he  does 
by  telling  her  some  cock-and-bull  story  of  having 
lost  his  haversack  and  being  'crimed'  by  a  brutal 
court-martial.  And  then  the  local  M.P.  is  got  at 
and  puts  a  question  in  Parliament:  'Whether  the 
right  honourable  gentleman's  attention  has  been 
drawn  to  the  vindictive  and  degrading  punishment 
inflicted  on  Private  John  Jones  by  Field-General  Court 
Martial,  and  whether  he  will  take  steps  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  brutal  and  barbarous  practice,'  etc., 


198  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

etc.  Faugh!  Fetch  me  an  ounce  of  civet — I  mean 
a  liqueur  brandy.  Waiter!  Damn  that  boy! 

"And  then  as  to  being  drunk.  If  a  private's 
drunk  he's  drunk.  But  if  an  officer's  taken  quinine 
and  gets  dizzy,  if  he's  had  shell-shock  and  gets  ex- 
citable, if  he's  taken  morphia  and  gets  dazed,  if 
there's  a  lack  of  muscular  coordination — well,  the 
Lord  help  that  officer  if  he's  taken  a  single  glass  of 
whisky  that  day,  for  the  A.P.M.  won't!  In  the 
army  there's  only  one  rule  for  the  officer — he's 
either  sober  as  a  judge  or  drunk  as  a  lord.  A  court- 
martial  recognizes  no  intermediate  shades  of  dis- 
tinction. None  of  your  police-surgeon's  tests  about 
the  'British  Constitution,'  no  trials  of  tendon  re- 
flexes, and  all  the  rest  of  it.  'Sentence  promulgated, 
accused  to  be  handed  over  to  A.P.M.  at  Boulogne, 
notice  to  Messrs.  Cox  and  Co.'  And  then — as  I 
say — FINIS.  Very  necessary,  of  course.  Many  a 
poor  lad's  gone  that  way,  and  for  a  first  offence, 
too." 

"Yes,"  I  remarked,  "dismissal  from  the  service 
is  death  to  an  officer,  but  discharge  with  ignominy 
seems  to  be  meat  and  drink  to  a  certain  type  of  pri- 
vate— or  it  was  before  the  Military  Service  Act  and 
the  cancellation  of  discharges.  But  that  doesn't 
stop  some  of  'em  trying  to  get  to  Parkhurst  all  the 
same.  I  remember  a  Tommy  saying  to  me  the  other 
day:  There  are  fellows  who  say  "distance  is  better 
than  cover"  and  commit  these  crimes  so  that  they 
will  be  sent  to  prison.'  Cold  feet,  evidently." 

"Well,  of  course.    Why,  if  you'd  been  in  the  army 


FIELD  PUNISHMENT  199 

as  long  as  I  have,  my  friend,  you'd  know  that 
getting  'crimed'  and  jugged  was  one  of  the  favourite 
dodges  of  a  man  with  cold  feet.  Do  you  know  the 
reason  for  the  rule  that  an  accused  is  not  to  wear 
his  cap  when  in  court?" 

"Ceremony,  I  suppose." 

"Ceremony  be  damned.  It  was  to  prevent  his 
throwing  it  at  the  president.  That  used  to  be  a 
favourite  dodge  with  cold-footed  wasters  who  were 
afraid  the  court-martial  would  acquit  'em.  Yes, 
I  mean  it.  Look  here,  my  friend,  lawyers  may  talk 
shop  till  they're  blue  in  the  face  about  Jeremy 
what's-his-name  and  theories  of  punishment — the 
reformative,  the  retributive,  the  deterrent,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  but  there's  only  one  theory  in  the 
army,  and  it's  the  preventive.  You've  not  only 
got  to  prevent  crime,  but  you've  got  to  prevent 
crime  committed  as  a  means  of  punishment.  You've 
got  to  punish  the  criminal  in  the  way  he  least  expects 
or  most  dislikes — see?  Now,  field  punishment  is 
punishment  in  the  field.  D'you  follow  me?  Con- 
sequently, the  fellow  who  commits  a  crime  in  order 
to  get  jugged  should  not  be  jugged — he  should  get 
P.P.  And  as  you  can't  give  C.B.  in  the  trenches 
you  must  give  P.P." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  why  P.P.  No.  I?  Why  not 
P.P.  No.  2?  Why  tie  him  up?  Why  not  put  him 
on  extra  fatigues  ? " 

"Why,  because  every  man's  doing  extra  fatigues 
in  the  trenches  as  it  is;  it's  the  daily  round,  the  com- 
mon task,  latrines  included.  And  you  can't  put 


200  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

him  in  a  guard  detention-room.  There's  no  guard- 
room in  the  trenches  even  if  you  could  spare  men  to 
look  after  him.  Besides,  the  chances  are  with  a 
real  bad  hat  that  he  wants  to  hit  the  sergeant  in  the 
eye  just  to  get  jugged.  Oh!  yes,  I  know  the  penalty 
for  that.  Death!  But  it  isn't  often  inflicted  and 
the  men  know  it — there'd  be  a  holy  row  in  Parlia- 
ment if  it  was!" 

"Well,  but  what  about  the  new  Suspension  of  Sen- 
tences Act  ? "  I  interjected.  "  A  confirming  authority 
can  suspend  the  sentence  the  moment  he  confirms 
it  and  keep  the  man  in  the  trenches.  Doesn't  that 
dispense  with  the  necessity  of  F.P?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Quite  the  contrary.  Supposing 
you've  suspended  the  sentence,  and  the  fellow  is 
one  of  the  kind  who  doesn't  want  to  retrieve  his 
character;  in  fact,  an  old  offender  or  a  cold-footed 
rotter  who  doesn't  care  a  damn  for  your  clemency, 
and  he  goes  and  commits  another  offence,  where  are 
you  ?  You've  got  to  send  him  to  gaol  after  all  unless 
—that's  where  F.P.  come  in." 

"Your  counsel  is  as  the  counsel  of  Ahithophel,"  I 
said. 

"Not  mine.  It's  the  A.G/s — bless  his  holy  name. 
He  thought  it  all  out.  You  see,  you've  got  to  stop 
up  every  earth.  As  to  F.P.  No.  I. — they  call  it 
'crucifixion/  It's  sometimes  a  thief  on  the  cross,  I 
admit — some  fellows  think  nothing  of  pinching  a 
pal's  belongings — but  there  isn't  any  cross.  I've 
never  seen  one.  I've  known  a  fellow  pegged  out — 
once — and  that  was  because  he  tried  to  kick  the 


FIELD  PUNISHMENT  201 

provost-sergeant  in  his  vitals.  But  the  only  F.P. 
I  ever  inflicted  when  I  was  a  O.C.  was  tying  up 
by  one  arm.  Why,  damn  it!  A  fellow  must  wipe 
his  nose,  you  know. 

"Of  course,  there  are  limits  to  F.P.  If  a  fellow's 
made  up  his  mind  to  get  jugged  to  avoid  service, 
jugged  he'll  get,  sooner  or  later,  and  if  his  conduct 
in  prison  is  ingeniously  and  scientifically  bad,  then 
you  can't  send  him  back  to  the  trenches  under  sus- 
pension. So  he  gets  out  of  the  army — or  rather 
out  of  the  trenches — and  to  a  certain  kind  of  man 
and  his  class  Wormwood  Scrubs  or  Parkhurst  is  no 
disgrace.  Mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  they  are 
typical.  Most  of  the  men  in  the  army  are  first- 
rate  fellows,  but  you've  now  got  conscription,  and 
that  means  you've  got  the  worst  as  well  as  the  best. 
But  there's  no  such  way  open  to  an  officer  if  he  should 
get  cold  feet,  for  the  simple  reason  that  prison  to 
him  is  a  stumbling  block  and  cashiering  foolishness. 
In  other  words,  the  only  way  of  leaving  the  army, 
open  to  an  officer,  is  closed  to  him — to  put  it  para- 
adoxically.  He  can't  resign  his  commission." 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  remember  when  I  asked  you, 
just  after  I  was  gazetted,  how  an  officer  could  resign 
his  commission  on  active  service,  you  said  'the  only 
way  you  can  be  sure  of  doing  it  is  to  go  into  the 
orderly-room  and  hit  the  adjutant  one  in  the  eye." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Colonel,  "it's  never  been  known 
to  fail.  But  it  isn't  often  used." 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  a  story,"  I  said  after  a 
pause.  "About  a  holy  terror." 


202  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Was  I?  Oh,  yes!  Well,  there  was  a  fellow  in 
a  certain  regiment  who  was  absolutely  the  limit. 
A  general  practitioner  in  army  'crime,'  in  fact.  He 
wasn't  so  much  vicious  as  intractable.  His  ten- 
ancy of  the  guard-room  was  so  frequent,  continuous, 
and  exclusive  that  I  sometimes  wonder  he  didn't 
get  put  on  the  register  as  a  voter  in  virtue  of  an 
occupation  franchise.  That  fellow's  regimental  con- 
duct-sheet was  quite  unique.  He'd  have  given  the 
recording  angel  writer's  cramp.  You  know  how 
zealously  conduct-sheets  are  kept  in  the  army,  and 
that  fellow's  record  extended  over  twelve  years. 
'Absent  from  tattoo  parade  when  on  inlying  picket 
— 6  days,  C.B.';  'Absent  from  defaulter's  roll-call 
at  2  P.M. — 1 68  hours.';  'Absent  until  apprehended  by 
the  police  at  6.30  P.M. — 2  months'  I.H.L.';  'Dis- 
obedience of  Battalion  Orders,  fastening  his  kit 
with  coat-straps — 8  days'  C.B.';  'Drunkenness- 
fined  2s.  6d.';  Tutting  his  head  through  a  pane  of 
glass  in  the  guard-room — stoppages  of  pay';  'Dirty 
on  parade';  'Quitting  fatigue  without  permission'; 
'Irregular  conduct  on  Church  parade';  'Improper 
language  to  a  N.C.O.';  'Pulling  the  leg  of  the  regi- 
mental goat';  'Singing  "Onward  Christian  soldiers" 
at  punishment  drill,'  and  so  on. 

"Well,  when  the  present  show  started,  he  went  out 
with  the  rest  of  his  battalion  and  the  leopard  didn't 
change  his  spots.  Very  good  fellow  in  a  scrap  all 
the  same.  And  I  must  say  the  O.C.'s  bull-pup  had 
a  high  opinion  of  him — and  I've  never  known  that 
dog  make  a  mistake.  He  had  nursed  the  pup 


FIELD  PUNISHMENT  203 

through  a  distemper.  One  day  in  the  trenches  he 
was  brought  before  the  O.C.  in  his  dug-out  and 
charged  with  giving  the  sergeant  lip.  'Do  you  elect 
to  be  tried  summarily?'  said  the  O.C.  'Yes,  please, 
sir,'  he  said. 

"As  you  know  every  man  who  is  tried  for  an 
offence  involving  forfeiture  of  pay  (and  P.P.  always 
means  that)  can  elect  to  have  a  court-martial.  But 
he  was  a  downy  bird — knew  the  Red  Book  from 
end  to  end,  though  he'd  never  read  a  word  of  it — and 
he  knew  that  an  O.C.  can  only  give  28  days'  F.P. 
at  the  most,  while  a  C.M.  can  award  as  much  as  90 
days.  'Very  well,'  said  the  O.C.,  after  the  hearing 
was  over,  '14  days'  F.P.  No.  I.'  So  the  sergeant 
took  him  back  to  a  dump  and  lashed  him  to  a  wagon 
by  one  arm,  making  it  extra  tight  with  a  double 
knot,  for  he  knew  his  man.  That  was  for  a  two- 
hour  shift,  which,  as  you  know,  is  the  maximum  dose 
per  diem. 

"Well,  a  few  minutes  later  a  Taube  came  recon- 
noitring over  our  lines.  It  soon  spotted  the  dump 
and  signalled  to  the  enemy  batteries.  And  then 
the  Hun  began  pitching  heavy  stuff  over — 8-inch. 
First  short,  then  wide,  but  always  getting  nearer  the 
spot  until  that  dump  was  as  black  as  a  Man-of-War 
coaling  her  bunkers.  The  O.C.  and  two  or  three 
company  officers  were  watching  the  display  from 
the  trenches  near  the  O.C.'s  dug-out  in  the  support- 
trenches,  and  the  company  officers  were  exchanging 
odds  on  the  chances  of  the  Hun's  getting  a  direct 
hit. 


204  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Til  bet  you  two  to  one  the  next's  a  dud,'  said  one 
of  them  who  was  bored  stiff. 

"'Done!'  said  the  other. 

"Of  course,  everyone  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
holy  terror — the  O.C.  had  many  other  things  to 
think  about.  And  suddenly  the  O.C.  said,  'Good 
God!'  and  scrambled  over  the  parados  and  made 
a  bee-line  for  the  dump.  His  officers  no  doubt 
thought  he'd  gone  off  his  chump.  And  the  O.C.'s 
bull-pup,  who  was  getting  fed  up  with  the  trenches, 
went  tearing  after  him.  Well,  he  made  tracks 
over  the  open  ground — unhealthy  place,  and  the 
surface  like  a  Gruyere  cheese — and  after  doing  the 
mile  in  record  time  he  got  to  the  wagon.  There 
was  the  fellow,  still  tied,  covered  with  black  earth, 
the  veins  on  his  temples  standing  out  like  whipcord, 
and  yelling  Til  be  hit— Gawd's  trewth,  I'll  be  hit.' 
He  was  not  a  coward  by  a  long  way,  but  by  that 
time  his  nerve  had  gone.  The  bull-pup,  who  had 
no  nerves,  began  leaping  up  trying  to  kiss  his  dirty 
face. 

"The  Colonel  whipped  out  his  knife,  and  in  a  trice 
cut  him  loose.  He  had  to  be  pretty  quick.  'Now 
follow  me,  my  man,'  he  says,  and  they  made  a  sprint 
for  the  communication  trench.  It  was  rather  quaint, 
as  the  dog  kept  running  from  one  to  the  other, 
thinking  it  all  a  huge  lark  and  being  frightfully 
pleased  because,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he 
was  being  taken  out  for  a  walk  at  one  and  the 
same  time  by  the  only  two  men  he  cared  a  cuss 
for.  He'd  always  been  trying  to  bring  them  together, 


FIELD  PUNISHMENT;  205 

not  being  very  well  up  in  military  etiquette. 
When  they'd  got  a  few  hundred  yards  they  got 
a  bad  dose  of  shrapnel.  And  as  luck  would  have 
it  the  holy  terror  got  hit  in  the  leg,  which 
flopped  as  though  he'd  got  locomotor  ataxia — 
tendons  smashed. 

"Tm  done,  sir/  he  said  and  collapsed.  So  the 
O.C.  picked  him  up  and— 

"What  a  splendid  thing  to  do,"  I  said  impulsively. 

My  friend  snorted.  "Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  said. 
"The  O.C.  had  had  him  tied  up — what  else  could 
he  do  but  go  and  untie  him?  You  don't  suppose 
he  was  going  to  leave  him  there.  He'd  never  have 
been  able  to  look  his  dog  in  the  face  again.  Oh,  no! 
Damn  it!  Can't  leave  a  fellow  like  an  Aunt  Sally 
for  Huns  to  shy  at. 

"Well,  now,  would  you  believe  it,  that  fellow 
turned  over  a  new  leaf  from  that  very  day«  When  he 
was  evacuated  and  returned  fit  for  duty  he  was  a 
new  man.  Talk  about  the  penitent  form  at  a 
revival  meeting!  He's  a  company  sergeant-major 
now.  And  he'd  have  licked  that  O.C's  boots  if 
the  O.C.  had  let  him;  he  had  to  content  himself 
with  blacking  them  as  his  batman  till  he  got  his 
stripes." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Colonel  studied  the 
ibex;  I  studied  the  Colonel. 

"I  say,  sir,  what  was  the  name  of  that  O.C. ?" 
I  asked. 

"Fine  pair  of  horns  that,"  said  the  Colonel.     "I 


206  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

remember  when  I  was  shooting  buck  in  South 
Africa- 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  what  was  the  name  of  the 
O.C.?"  I  persisted. 

The  Colonel  seemed  annoyed ;  he  coloured  slightly. 
"I— I  forget,"  he  said.  / 


XIV 

THE  LOST  PLATOON 
I 

IT  WAS  a  warm  August  night,  but  there  was  a 
fire  'in  the  guard-room.  It's  a  way  we  have. 
The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  twenty-five 
minutes  to  ten.  Six  men  in  khaki  uniform  lay  on  as 
many  beds,  most  of  them  on  their  backs  with  their 
hands  clasped  under  their  heads,  and  gazing  con- 
templatively at  the  whitewashed  walls.  The  cor- 
poral of  the  guard  was  sitting  up  reading  an  evening 
paper  by  the  light  of  his  own  tallow  "dip,"  stuck  in 
an  empty  bottle,  from  which  depended  a  stalactite 
of  grease.  He  read  most  of  the  time  in  silence,  but 
occasionally  he  whispered  a  long  word,  dwelling  on 
each  syllable  as  though  to  give  it  due  weight,  and 
glancing  inquisitively  at  the  sergeant.  The  ser- 
geant was  sitting  stolidly  at  a  deal  table  making 
entries  in  a  buff  document.  He  tickled  the  bottom 
of  the  ink-bottle  with  his  pen  as  though  seeking  in- 
spiration therein.  Then  he  inclined  his  head  to  one 
side,  protruded  his  tongue  athletically,  squared  his 
elbows,  and  proceeded  to  write. 

"U-1-t-i-m-a-t-um!  I  say,  sergeant,  what  is  a  hul- 
timatum?" 

"Wait  till  I've  finished  this  blooming'  guard  re- 

207 


208  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

port,"  said  the  sergeant,  adding  to  himself:  "De- 
faulters— one." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  broken  only  by  the 
scratching  of  the  sergeant's  pen,  and  the  purring  of 
the  kettle  on  the  range. 

"Bank-rate — ten  per  cent,"  read  the  corporal 
confusedly.  "What  the  'ell  does  that  mean?  What 
did  you  say  a  hultimatum  was,  sergeant?" 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  anything,"  retorted  the  ser- 
geant, cautiously.  "Here,  lemme  see  the  paper." 
He  studied  it  for  a  moment.  "It  means,"  he  said 
resolutely,  "get  out  or  get  under." 

"Well,  why  can't  they  say  so?"  said  the  corporal 
grievously.  "I  passed  the  fifth  standard,  but  these 
jaw-breaking  words  give  me  the  hump." 

He  glanced  at  the  sergeant,  and  seeing  he  was 
resting  from  his  literary  labours  he  felt  encouraged 
to  proceed:  "When  the  orderly  officer  came  round 
to-day  he  sez  to  Private  Whipple  what  was  on 
sentry,  he  sez,  'Give  up  your  orders!'  and  Private 
Whipple  repeats  his  orders  like  as  if  he  was  saying 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  when  Vd  got  to  'No  men- 
dicants or  persons  so-soliciting  ahms  to  be  'llowed 
within  the  barrack-gate,'  the  orderly  officer  sez,  he 
sez,  sudden-like,  'What's  s-soliciting  ahms  mean?' 
and  Private  Whipple  sez,  'Trying  to  pinch  rifles,  sir/ 
and  the  orderly  officer  smiles  sarkastic-like  and  told 
me  to  see  as  Private  Whipple  understood  his  orders. 
What  do  soliciting  ahms  mean,  sargeant?" 

"If  you  gives  a  copper  to  a  bloke  in  the  street 
.  .  ."  explained  the  sergeant. 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  209 

"Not  me,"  said  the  corporal  apprehensively.  "I 
ain't  such  a  mug.  One  and  eightpence  a  day  is  all  I 
gets,  and  there  ain't  much  change  out  of  that." 

"If  you  gives  a  copper  to  a  bloke  in  the  street," 
persisted  the  sergeant,  "and  he  asks  you  for  it, 
he's  soliciting  alms  off  you." 

The  corporal  gazed  at  the  sergeant  with  respectful 
admiration.  "You  must  'a  studied  hard  in  your 
time,  sergeant." 

"A  tidy  bit,"  said  the  sergeant  loftily.  "That's 
the  way  to  get  on,  young  feller." 

"'It  is — is — expected — that  the  German  Ambas- 
sador will  be  'anded  his  passports,'"  read  out  the 
corporal  slowly.  "Now  what  might  that  mean, 
sergeant?" 

"It  means,"  said  the  sergeant,  as  he  blotted  the 
guard  report,  "as  he'll  go  on  furlough.  And  maybe 
he'll  get  his  'ticket.'" 

"D'you  think  as  there'll  be  war,  sergeant?" 

"  Guard,  turn  out ! "  It  was  the  voice  of  the  sentry 
outside.  The  six  men  sprang  from  their  beds,  stretched 
their  arms,  pulled  their  tunics  straight,  and  made 
for  the  rifle-rack.  Each  man  took  down  a  rifle 
with  bayonet  fixed,  and  filed  out  of  the  guard-room. 
The  sergeant  took  down  a  rifle  without  a  bayonet, 
and  followed  them.  As  he  reached  the  doorway 
he  shouted:  "Sound  ten  o'clock."  The  Guard 
fell  in.  On  the  tenth  stroke  of  the  gong  the  notes 
of  the  "Last  Post"  rang  out  over  the  barrack  square. 

A  well-built  man  with  the  Royal  Arms  on  his 
sleeve  walked  up  smartly.  It  was  the  regimental 


2io  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

sergeant-major.  He  had  a  well-arched  chest,  the 
clean,  sloping  shoulders  of  an  athlete;  his  deltoid 
muscles  rippled  through  his  tunic,  and  he  moved  on 
his  feet  with  a  quick,  resilient  tread.  In  every  move- 
ment there  was  a  suggestion  of  suppressed  power;  he 
was  like  a  coiled  steel  spring.  As  he  saw  the  com- 
pany orderly  sergeants,  he  shouted:  "Staff  Parade! 
'Shun!'' 

"A  Company!"  called  the  sergeant-major. 

"Present,  sir." 

"B  Company!" 

"Four  absent,  sir." 

And  he  rang  the  changes  on  the  companies,  the 
band,  the  drums,  the  signallers,  till  he  reached 
"canteen." 

"Closed  and  correct,  sir." 

Which  being  done,  the  sergeant-major  turned  to 
the  orderly  officer.  The  latter  stood  by  him  in  mess 
kit,  with  sword  and  cap,  the  light  of  the  lamp  over 
the  guard-room  door  gleaming  on  his  glazed  shirt- 
front. 

"Staff  parade  present,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant-major 
with  a  salute. 

"Staff  parade!  Dismiss!"  said  the  orderly  officer, 
and  he  turned  away. 

At  that  moment  an  officer  in  mess  kit,  but  without 
a  cap,  walked  into  the  light.  It  was  the  Adjutant. 
He  carried  a  telegram  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  was 
grave. 

"Addison!  Sergeant-major!"  Officer  '  and  ser- 
geant-major turned  and  saluted. 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  211 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Addison. 

"Look  at  that,  my  son,"  said  the  Adjutant,  and 
he  handed  him  the  telegram.  It  contained  a  single 
word. 

Addison  gave  a  low  whistle.  "So  it's  come  at 
last?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Adjutant  slowly ,["  it's  come  at  last. 
The  regiment's  got  to  mobilize.  This  means  war." 
He  turned  to  the  warrant  officer.  "Sergeant-major, 
have  the  officers'  call  sounded.  And  the  orderly-ser- 
geants' call.  And  I  want  a  cycle  orderly  to  go  down 
to  the  Colonel,  quick!" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  suppose  the  reservists'll  be  coming  in 
in  a  couple  of  days?" 

"Yes! "The  Adjutant  was  thinking  rapidly.  "The 
colours  must  go  to  the  depot.  The  regimental 
mess  plate  will  be  taken  to  the  bank — but  the  mess- 
president  will  see  to  that;  the  plate  of  the  sergeants' 
mess  had  better  go  with  it.  Sergeant-major!  Have 
the  gymnasium  and  the  church  open  to  put  the  kits 
in.  Get  the  church  orderly  warned  at  once.  See 
that  the  officers'  call  and  orderly-sergeants'  are 
sounded." 

The  sergeant-major  saluted  and  disappeared. 

The  notes  of  the  two  calls  floated  over  the  bar- 
rack square. 

"The  ord-'ly-sergeants  are  want-ed  now — ord-'ly 
sergeants  to  run!"  hummed  the  orderly  officer  me- 
chanically. He  was  trying  to  think. 

"Well,  Addison,"  said  the  Adjutant  reflectively. 
Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Each  man  was  think- 


2i2  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

ing  of   a  woman    and    wondering  how  she  would 
take  it. 

"Well,"   said   the   subaltern,   "no   shooting   this 


autumn." 


"No!  nor  cubbing,  either.  I'm  going  to  sell  my 
hunters  for  what  they'll  fetch." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that.  This  show  will  be  over  by 
Christmas." 

"Will  it,  my  boy?  I  wonder!  If  I  know  anything 
of  the  gentle  German  his  lamp  is  trimmed.  Tisn't 
sense  to  think  he's  asking  for  a  licking.  Oh,  no!" 

"Well,  the  regiment  couldn't  be  in  better  form. 
The  men  are  topping.  Don't  tell  me  the  Germans 
could  beat  our  men  at  the  butts.  Why!  the  returns 
for  recruits'  firing  Part  III  were  up  to  ninety  point 
three  last  week.  I'd  put  my  last  shirt  on  'em." 

"I  know.  I  know.  But  what  kind  of  'predicted 
area'  are  we  going  to  bump  into  out  there?  Mind 
you,  Addison,  I'm  not  grousing.  Our  army's  not 
large,  but  by  God  it's  good.  And  soldiering's  a 
very  different  thing  from  what  it  was.  We've 
sweated  the  last  ounce  out  of  ourselves  over  training. 
These  staff  rides! — why,  I  know  every  bit  of  cover 
round  here  from  a  dandelion  to  a  copse.  We've 
mugged  up  strategy  and  tactics  as  if  we'd  been  back 
at  an  army  crammer's.  And  the  men!  Topping, 
I  agree.  Their  conduct-sheets  show  that.  As  for 
the  sergeant-major  he's  never  once  let  me  down  all 
the  time  I've  been  adjutant." 

"Yes.  He's  a  jolly  good  sort.  He's  taught  me  a 
lot.  D'you  remember  the  fight  he  put  up  when  he 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  213 

was  runner  up  for  the  Army  championship?  My! 
That  left  of  his  was  .  .  ." 

"Orderly-sergeants  all  present,  sir."  The  sergeant- 
major  had  returned. 

"Thank  you,  sergeant-major.  Right!  I  say, 
sergeant-major." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  know  what  we're  in  for?" 

"Y-yes,  sir.     Germans,  isn't  it?" 

"Is — is  the  battalion  all  right,  d'you  think?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  think  they're  all  right.  Thanks  to 
you,  sir." 

"Well,  you've  had  a  hand  in  it,  sergeant-major. 
I  suppose  we've  all  done  our  best.  All  right,  good- 
night. Serg Wait  a  minute,  though.  There'll 

be  the  men's  pay-books  to  be  issued.  The  quarter- 
master-sergeant will  see  to  that,  of  course.  There's 
a  form  for  making  a  will  on  active  service  on  the 
last  page.  But  the  company  commanders  will 
explain  all  that  to  the  men.  Yes,  good-night,  ser- 
geant-major." 

"A  good  chap  that,  Addison!"  said  the  Adjutant 
as  they  moved  toward  the  orderly  room,  "a  very 
good  chap!" 

They  disembarked  at  Boulogne  and  within  a  few 
days  found  themselves  at  Mons.  There  on  that 
fateful  Sunday  they  held  the  salient  of  the  canal 
against  overwhelming  odds  and,  holding  it,  decided 
the  fate  of  the  world.  But  of  what  mighty  issues 
hung  upon  their  resolution  most  of  them  knew  little 


214  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

and  boasted  not  at  all,  and  those  who  survived  will 
to  this  day  tell  you  nothing  except  that  it  was  very 
"warm."  They  were  badly  cut  up;  Addison  dis- 
appeared, and  when  the  roll  was  called  at  the  end 
of  the  first  day  of  the  retreat  not  a  man  of  his  platoon 
was  there  to  answer  it.  Months  afterward  the  Ad- 
jutant (by  this  time  a  Colonel)  picked  up  their  trail 
by  a  painful  induction  from  the  lists  of  "Prisoners 
died  of  wounds,"  which  filtered  through  from  time 
to  time,  and  adding  them  up  he  could  account  for 
twenty  men.  It  struck  him  as  something  curious 
that  nearly  half  a  platoon  should  die  of  wounds  at 
such  long  intervals  after  their  capture — but  he  left 
it  at  that.  Of  Addison  and  his  fate  he  could  discover 
nothing  at  all.  And  then  one  day,  some  twenty- 
one  months  after  the  event,  he  learnt  that  the  regi- 
mental sergeant-major  had  been  repatriated  as  a 
disabled  prisoner  of  war.  He  took  advantage  of  a 
few  days'  leave  to  get  in  touch  with  "Records," 
and  at  last  he  found  himself  on  a  hot  scent.  It 
ended  at  a  big  stone  building  on  a  lonely  down  in  a 
southern  county. 

II 

The  medical  superintendent  glanced  at  the  card. 
"Show  him  in,"  he  said. 

An  officer  entered.  It  was  the  Colonel.  He  took 
in  the  room  at  a  glance — he  noted  a  row  of  books 
with  the  names  of  Hughlings,  Jackson,  Ferrier,  and 
Clouston  on  their  backs  and  saw  on  the  table  the 
corrected  proof-sheets  of  a  typescript  with  the  super- 


;THE  LOST  PLATOON  215 

scription,  "The  Localization  of  Cerebral  Disease." 
Then  he  glanced  again  at  the  medical  superintendent 
and  suddenly  encountered  a  pair  of  eyes  which  seemed 
to  be  looking  right  through  him.  It  was  not  the 
colour  of  the  irises  that  arrested  him  but  their  visual 
intensity — they  seemed  to  see  things  invisible  to  the 
ordinary  eye  of  sense.  You  will  often  see  that  look 
in  the  eyes  of  an  alienist.  It  is  a  lonely  look.  The 
next  moment  the  doctor's  eyes  had  changed  their 
expression.  They  were  masked  by  a  homely  look  of 
bland  and  sociable  enquiry,  and  this  so  suddenly  that 
the  Colonel  wondered  whether  he  had  been  dreaming. 

"I  have  come  to  enquire  after  a  man  of  my  regi- 
ment, a  sergeant-major.  George  Smith.  Wounded 
and  captured  at  Mons,  I  believe.  I  heard  he'd 
lately  been  repatriated  from  Germany.  Records 
inform  me  that  he  was  sent  to  D.  Block  at  Netley 
and  then  here.  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with 
him,  please." 

"I  see,"  said  the  medical  superintendent,  pen- 
sively. "I  see.  Won't  you  sit  down?"  He  seemed 
to  hesitate. 

"Perhaps  it's  not  your  regular  visiting  day,"  said 
the  Colonel.  "I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  on  short  leave." 

"No,"  said  the  medical  superintendent.  "No, 
it's  not  that.  But  he  wouldn't  know  you — and 
perhaps  you  wouldn't  know  him." 

The  Colonel  smiled  incredulously.  "Not  know 
me!  I  was  adjutant  to  the  battalion  and  he  was 
regimental  sergeant-major.  Surely  his  case  is  not 
so  bad  as  that?  Look  at  these  cases  of  shell  shock. 


216  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

There's  nothing  you  doctors  cannot  do  in  the  healing 
line.     Why!     I  knew  a  man " 

"You  do  us  too  much  honour,"  said  the  doctor, 
deprecatingly.  "Shell  shock  is  primarily  a  physical 
shock.  The  disorders  it  produces  are  functional, 
not  organic — unless  of  course  there's  a  predisposition 
to  insanity.  A  brain  lesion's  another  matter,  you 
know.  I've  given  much  thought  to  his  case— much 
thought."  He  looked  out  at  the  garden,  brilliant 
with  the  early  flowers  of  spring,  and  gaudy  with  the 
meretricious  hues  of  Dutch  tulips.  "Those  daf- 
fodils reminded  me  of  it  just  now.  Ever  heard  of 
chromesthesia?  No?  Ah,  well,  I  won't  weary  you 
with  psychiatry.  It's  not  a  thing  to  take  up  as  a 
hobby.  Let  us  look  up  the  case." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  taking  down  a  large 
leather-bound  folio  turned  the  leaves  rapidly.  At 
the  head  of  each  page  were  the  words  "Medical 
History  Sheet!"  followed  by  a  man's  name  and  a 
number  of  entries  in  chronological  order.  In  the 
middle  of  each  page  was  pasted  a  photograph. 

"Smith — Alfred,  Arthur,  Charles,"  muttered  the 
doctor,  "George!  Yes,  here  it  is.  Sent  here  from 
Netley.  'Discharged  from  the  army  under  392 
(XVI)  of  King's  Regulations.  Permanently  unfit. 
Delusional  insanity/  They  sent  us  a  copy  of  his 
military  history  sheet.  Long-service  and  Good 
Conduct  Medal,  I  see.  Yes,  yes,  'quite  so.  A  clean- 
living  man,  I  should  say.  No  traces  of  syphilitic 
trouble.  His  pupils  respond  to  light.  His  weight's 
improved,  I  see.  He  was  ten  stone  when  he  came 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  217 

here  and  anaemic.  Starvation,  of  course.  He's  up  to 
thirteen  now — he'll  recover  his  normal  weight  in 
time.  That's  his  photograph.  We  always  photo- 
graph them  on  admission." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  the  photograph.  He  looked 
at  it  for  a  long  time  in  silence. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor.  "Do  you  still  wish  to 
see  him?  Very  well,"  and  he  pressed  an  electric 
button. 

"Bring  No.  1101  here,"  he  said  to  the  attendant. 
"I  suppose  he's  dressed.  If  not,  tell  them  to  dress 
him." 

The  Colonel  was  looking  at  the  view  commanded 
by  the  doctor's  window — a  training  camp  under 
canvas,  and,  behind  the  bell-tents,  mile  upon  mile  of 
rippling  down  crowned  with  spinneys  of  beech. 
The  long  shadows  thrown  upon  their  green  slopes 
by  the  fleecy  clouds  travelling  across  the  sky  chased 
one  another  till  it  seemed  as  if  the  downs  themselves 
were  in  ecstatic  motion.  And  he  felt  it  was  rather 
good  to  be  alive. 

"I  think  I  know  what  the  Psalmist  meant  when  he 
said  'the  mountains  skip  like  rams/"  he  mused. 
"He  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  South  Down 
country  on  a  sunny  day  in 

The  Colonel  turned  at  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet. 
He  saw  at  the  door  a  patient  in  loose  gray  clothes. 
He  stared  a  long  time.  What  it  was  that  he  saw  I 
never  have  been  quite  able  to  understand,  for  when 
he  told  me  the  story  weeks  afterward  he  could  remem- 
ber nothing  clearly  about  the  man's  appearance 


2i 8  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

except  that  the  hands  moved  continually  and  fum- 
bled with  the  clothes. 

The  Colonel  advanced  a  step  to  speak.  As  he 
did  so,  the  patient  recoiled  and  raised  his  arm  in 
front  of  his  face  as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"Well,  sergeant-major/'  said  the  Colonel  ten- 
tatively. "You  remember  me?  Come,  come."  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  coaxing  a  child.  "You  remember 
your  old  adjutant." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  George  Smith  drew  his 
heels  together  and  saluted  vaguely.  He  turned  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  voice  and  listened  in- 
tently. He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  locate  the 
Colonel's  voice. 

"Is  he  blind?" 

"Not  exactly.  There's  no  sensory  blindness.  He 
sees  you  but  doesn't  recognize  you,  and  your  uniform 
conveys  nothing  to  him.  It's  what  we  alienists  call 
psychic  blindness.  D'you  follow  me?" 

"Not  quite.  If  he  doesn't  know  my  face  how 
does  he  come  to  recognize  my  voice  ? " 

"The  visual  memory's  gone,  but  the  auditory 
memory,  though  impaired,  remains.  How?  Well, 
I  suspect  some  lesion  to  the  nerve  tracts  connecting 
the  optic  centres  with  the  centres  for  other  ideas. 
To  be  plain  with  you,  I  think  he's  had  a  blow  on  the 
head — he  may  have  been  treated  to  the  butt-end  of  a 
rifle  from  one  of  his  guards.  It's  a  way  they  have, 
you  know.  The  sound  of  your  voice — I  mean,  the 
crude  acoustic  effect — has  awakened  something,  of 
course,  revived  some  auditory  impression  stored  up 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  219 

in  the  cells  of  the  brain.  Yes,  yes.  His  brain  is  like 
a  dark  room  in  which  his  mind  is  trying  to  develop 
a  negative.  The  negative  is  the  image  conveyed  by 
the  sound  of  your  voice.  But  who  can  see  into  a 
man's  brain?  I've  been  trying  to  do  it  all  my  life. 
All  I  know  is  that  the  mental  photograph  that's  being 
developed  at  this  moment  in  George  Smith's  brain 
will  probably  be  hopelessly  blurred." 

"D'you  remember  the  Delhi  manoeuvres,  sergeant- 
major?"  said  the  Colonel  suddenly  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  chair.  "When  we  were  up  at  Paniput? 
No!  he  doesn't — poor  chap!  Remember  when  the 
huts  at  Blacktown  caught  fire  and  the  tug-of-war 
teams  put  the  rope  round  the  huts  on  each  side  of  the 
mess  and  pulled  them  down  and  saved  the  mess  plate  ? 
Surely  you  remember  that  ?  It  was  your  notion— 
that.  And  how  we  got  the  mess-sergeant  to  call  you 
in  after  dinner  that  night  and  all  drank  your  health? 
No!  D'you  remember  Mons?  The  slag-heaps!  No!" 

The  Colonel  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
drew  his  whistle  and  sounded  it,  watching  the  man's 
face.  The  patient's  lips  moved.  He  trembled 
violently.  Then  he  began  to  speak. 

"Hold  your  fire!  Wait  till  I  give  the  word. 
Three  hundred!  Steady!  Let  them  come  on.  At 
the  enemy  in  front — five  rounds — rapid — FIRE!  Oh! 
Very  good.  Christ!  the  place's  alive  with  'em. 
Where's  our  flank?  They're  on  our  right  now — 
they're  enfilading  us.  Where  are  our  supports? 
Never  mind!  Give  'em  hell,  boys.  Where's  Mr. 
Addison?  Sir?" 


220  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  Colonel  leaned  forward  eagerly  and  was  about 
to  speak.  The  doctor  held  up  his  hand.  "Don't  in- 
terrupt him,"  he  whispered,  "it  won't  help  matters." 

"Where  are  our  supports?  Where's  the  runner? 
No!  No!  mustn't  retire.  Where's  Mr.  Addison? 
How  many?  About  thirty?  Thirty,  did  you  say? 
Out  of  fifty-five!  See  that  chimney-stack!  Three 
hundred!  Yes,  three  hundred.  Recruit  are  you, 
my  lad?  Only  just  off  the  square.  Never  mind! 
Remember  old  six  o'clock.  Get  tip  of  foresight  into 
line  with  the  shoulder  of  the  U  of  the  backsight  and 
aim  at  bottom  of  the  stack!  That's  it.  I  don't 
know.  Well!  We've  got  our  iron  rations.  After 
that  it'll  be  a  case  of  'March  Past.'  How  many  of 
us  did  you  say?  About  twenty-one!  Twenty-one 
out  of  fifty-five.  They've  outflanked  us!  It's  a 
wash-out.  We've  no  ammunition  left.  We've  the 
wounded  to  think  of.  But  I  never  thought  it  'ud 
come  to  this.  Where's  Mr.  Addison?" 

"Fifty-five!"  said  the  Colonel  quietly  to  himself. 
"Yes,  it  would  be  about  fifty-five.  We  were  up  to 
full  strength."  The  voice  had  stopped.  The  Colo- 
nel, glancing  at  the  doctor,  saw  that  his  eyes  were 
narrowly  watching  the  sergeant-major.  The  ser- 
geant-major was  gazing  fixedly  at  the  desk  in  front 
of  him  behind  which  the  doctor  sat.  The  doctor 
leaned  forward  and  very  quietly,  very  unobtrusively, 
placed  his  hand  over  something  lying  on  the  front 
of  the  desk,  grasped  it,  closed  it  with  a  click,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  penknife. 

The  stealthy  look  died  out  of  the  sergeant-major's 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  221 

eyes  and  the  next  moment  he  had  resumed  his 
monologue: 

"Don't  club  him  like  that!  He's  hit  in  the  leg; 
he  can't.  He  can't,  I  tell  you.  Christ!  Call 
yourself  a  soldier.  Where's  your  officer?  'Pris- 
oners!' I  know  we  are.  But  we're  men  same  as 
you.  How  would  you  like  .  .  .  Oh  Christ! 
leave  me  alone.  You  dog,  leave  me  alone  .  .  . 
I  can't  carry  it  any  more,  you've  broke  my  arm. 
It's  your  pack! — No!  I  ain't  got  anything  to  give 
you,  my  lad.  They've  been  through  my  pockets, 
too.  Rations!  They've  taken  mine,  too.  No!  I 
ain't  had  anything  for  forty-eight  hours.  How  does 
it  go  'Come  to  the  cook-house  door,  boys,  come  to 
the  cook-house  door." 

"It's  the  men's  way  of  putting  the  cook-house 
call,"  whispered  the  Colonel  to  the  doctor. 

"No!  it's  mouldy.  How  many?  Fifteen  did 
you  say  out  of  fifty-five?  Yes!  They've  clubbed 
five  of  us  because  they  couldn't  keep  up.  A  horse 
tent.  Yes,  they've  bedded  us  down  with  straw. 
Look  at  the  straw — it's  moving.  It's  alive.  Christ! 
Don't  they  itch?  Something  cruel.  They  say  it's 
good  enough  for  English  swine.  How  many  did 
you  say?  Fourteen!  Fourteen  out  of  fifty-five! 
Yes,  he  died  of  hunger,  poor  chap.  How's  it  go? 
'Come  to  the  cook—  No!  I  can't  remember 
any  more.  There  ain't  any  cook-house  here,  my  lad. 
No!  don't  give  in.  Spat  in  your  face,  did  they? 
Tell  'em  to  go  to  hell!  Your  shirt  itches,  do  it? 
Throw  it  away  then.  Took  yer  kit  away,  did  they? 


222  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Christ!  ain't  we  deficient  in  articles!  The  O.C.'ll 
take  an  inventory  when  we  get  home  same  as  he 
did  with  deserters  an'll  order  us  to  be  put  under  stop- 
pages to  make  good.  The  Adjutant  won't  like  it — 

The  Colonel  was  gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair. 
He  muttered  something  under  his  breath.  The 
doctor  toyed  with  a  pen,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  patient. 
The  latter  now  clenched  his  fists  convulsively.  The 
attendants  moved  a  pace  closer. 

"No  towel!  Use  your  shirt,  my  lad,  mustn't  be 
dirty  on  parade.  Soup  like  sewage,  ain't  it!  'Straf- 
baracke?  What's  it  mean?  Means  'in  clink,'  my 
lad.  Yes!  fifty  pfennigs  a  day  for  fatigues.  Ain't 
this  baulk  of  timber  heavy?  Offering  you  bread,  are 
they?  No!  Don't  take  any  notice;  they'll  only 
snatch  it  away  again  to  get  a  rise  out  of  you.  Blast 
them,  they  ain't  human.  Tighten  yer  belt,  instead, 

my  lad.  How  does  it  go?  'Come  to  the '  No! 

I  can't  remember  it:  I'm  that  hungry.  How  many 
did  you  say?  Eight.  Eight  out  of  fifty-five.  It's 
the  typhus  done  it.  Where's  the  platoon?  Not 
even  a  section!  Never  say  die,  boys.  .  .  . 
How  many  did  you  say?  Three  of  us  poor  sinners 
left.  One  on  us  left — not  enough  to  mount  guard 
now.  .  .  .  They're  going  to  tie  him  up  to  the 
post,  he  was  a  sergeant-major,  he  was. 

"Tie  him  up  to  the  post!  Yes!  All  night,  and 
it's  snowing.  Jesus!  The  wind's  something  cruel. 
What  for  ?  For  giving  back  answers !  Why  did  they 
call  him  an  'English  swine'  then!  Yes!  a  double 
knot.  Round  the  ankles,  then  round  the  knees, 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  223 

then  round  the  shoulders,  then  round  the  wrists,  then 
a  slip-knot  round  the  tree.  It'll  be  about  tattoo  at 
home  now,  it  will.  Tell  'em  to  go  to  hell  .  .  . 
tell'em.  .  .  ." 

"What  about  Addison  ?  Ask  him  about  Addison," 
the  Colonel  entreated.  But  the  doctor  shook  his 
head. 

The  sentences  grew  more  and  more  confused.  He 
uttered  substantives  without  verbs  and  verbs  without 
substantives.  He  faltered,  stammered — and  stop- 
ped. The  brain  had  run  down  like  a  clock. 

"Like  spirit-rapping — oh!  most  damnably,"  was 
how  the  Colonel  put  it  afterward.  "And  not  a 
trace  of  feeling,  no!  Not  a  flicker  on  the  poor  devil's 
face.  And  there  were  we  talking  over  him  as  though 
he  were  a  dog  or  a  horse — like  two  Vets/  And  those 
attendants  standing  beside  him  like  two  damned 
deaf  mutes.  As  for  him,  you'd  have  sworn  he  was 
talking  about  someone  else.  A  brain  without  a 
mind,  you  know.  Ever  noticed  how  the  tape  clicks 
out  the  Exchange  telegrams  and  then  gives  you  'the 
right  hon.  gentleman  said  x  x  x  x  x?'  All  noughts 
and  crosses,  you  know.  It  was  just  like  that." 

The  Colonel  put  this  to  the  medical  superintendent 
at  the  time.  He  urged  him  to  help  him  find  a  cue — 
to  play  the  prompter  to  that  darkened  brain. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "We  alienists  are 
still  groping  in  the  dark,"  he  protested,  with  his  eyes 
still  on  the  vacant  face  of  the  sergeant-major.  "We 
can  observe  much;  we  can  experiment  but  little — 
or  not  at  all.  Tear  not  them  which  kill  the  body* 


224  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

— you  know  the  rest.     I  cannot  cure  the  soul.     I 
have  been  asked  that  question  before — oh!  too  often. 

"Canst  thou  not'minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow? 

"Would  that  I  could!  You  know  at  times  he 
thinks  he  has  committed  an  unforgivable  sin  and 
that  he's  condemned  to  stand  forever  on  his  toes 
tied  to  a  post  in  the  snow.  What  did  you  say?  Oh, 
yes!  An  auditory  impression,  if  sufficiently  reso- 
nant, will  sometimes  stimulate  the  other  senses.  A 
good  deal's  been  done  that  way  in  cases  of  hypno- 
tism— take  a  tuning-fork,  for  example;  if  sounded 
close  to  the  ear,  it  will  sometimes  increase  the  acute- 
ness  of  vision.  One  can  even  conceive  of  its  ren- 
dering first-aid  to  a  defective  memory.  But  these  are 
mere  conjuring  tricks.  What's  that  ? " 

Through  the  open  window  there  floated  upon  the 
air  a  single  silvery  note.  It  was  followed  by  another, 
tentative  and  tremulous,  and  then  a  series  of  volatile 
trills  and  flourishes.  In  the  larch  tree  outside  a 
thrush,  piping  its  morning  call,  stopped  inquisitively. 
The  listlessness  died  out  of  the  sergeant-major's  face; 
he  listened,  his  head  on  one  side,  with  the  painful 
effort  at  location  of  a  new-born  child.  Upon  the 
green  hillside,  half  a  mile  away,  a  happy  bugler  was 
practising  his  calls.  He  broke  into  the  "pick-me- 
up,  pick-me-up"  quavers  of  the  sergeants'  mess-call, 
changed  suddenly  into  the  "drummer's  knock," 
blew  a  few  bars  of  the  "last  post,"  and  then  sounded 


THE  LOST  PLATOON  225 

a  plaintive  sequence  of  three  notes  which  came  and 
went  as  in  a  fugue.  The  sergeant-major  started  to 
his  feet,  put  his  hands  to  his  temples,  stared  at  the 
Colonel's  uniform,  and,  suddenly  coming  to  atten- 
tion, saluted. 

"The  orderly-sergeants'  call,  sir ! "  __ 

The  Colonel  watched  him  breathlessly,  waiting  for 
a  resurrection  that  never  came. 

"We've  got  to  mobilize — to  mobilize — to  mobilize. 
Send  the  colours  to  the  depot.  Open  the  church  for 
the  men's  kits,  orderly.  The  reservists  will  be  here 
to-morrow.  Quick!"  And  he  made  for  the  door. 

Strong  arms  clasped  him  in  a  grip  of  iron.  He 
struggled  in  the  embrace  of  the  attendants. 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!"  he  shouted.  "I'm  the 
sergeant-major!  Where's  the  Adjutant  ?  Damn  you ! 
Let  me  go!" 

"No,"  said  the  Colonel  to  me  afterward.  "I'd 
had  enough.  The  last  I  saw,  or  rather  heard,  of  him 
as  I  left  that  horrible  place  was  his  voice  from  down  a 
long  corridor  as  they  led  him  away.  There  is  a 
peculiar  timbre  about  the  voices  of  the  insane — you 
may  have  noticed  it  ?  .  .  .  When  I  think  of  the 
old  regiment — the  old  regiment  marching  up  from 
rail-head,  the  advanced-guard  like  a  spear-point,  the 
connecting  files,  the  column  of  fours,  and  the  ser- 
geant-major up  in  front  with  the  C.  O.  and  me,  all  the 
men  with  marigolds  in  their  caps  and  singing,  singing, 
"Tipperary"  in  the  heat  and  dust — and  then  that  ! 
What?  Addison?  No!  I  never  heard." 


XV 

DRAFTS 

THE  O.C.  who  accompanied  me  on  the  tour  of 
inspection  was  as  proud  of  his  Base  Training 
Camp  as  though  it  were  the  family  estate 
entailed  on  him  and  the  heirs  male  of  his  body  law- 
fully begotten.  I  told  him  so. 

"Hum!"  he  said  reflectively,  "I  hope  I'm  not 
tenant  for  life  of  this  place.  I'd  like  to  get  back  to 
my  old  regiment  some  time.  Still,  it's  a  pretty 
place,  eh,  what?" 

I  looked  round.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  was  a 
wilderness  of  sand  dunes  among  which  clumps  of 
elder,  sea-nettle,  and  couch-grass  maintained  a 
desperate  struggle  for  existence.  Occasionally  a 
light  wind  played  over  it,  changing  its  contours  in  a 
second,  and  depositing  a  thousand  grains  in  our 
eyes  and  nostrils  so  that  I  sneezed  and  winked  alter- 
nately. Our  walk  reminded  me  of  the  walrus  and 
the  carpenter. 

"It  makes  me  weep,"  I  said,  with  a  handkerchief 
to  my  eyes,  "to  see  such  quantities  of  sand." 

The  O.C.  regarded  this  as  a  reflection  on  the  capi- 
tal value  of  the  estate.  "It's  dry,"  he  said  argu- 
ment atively 

"I'm  sure  it  is,"  I  hastened  to  agree.  ._"I'm  not 

226 


DRAFTS  227 

crabbing  it.  You've  done  wonders."  And  he  had. 
"We've  got  our  plans  for  demobilization  well  in 
hand;  we  might  do  worse  than  begin  to  consider  the 
realization  of  these  assets.  Only  an  advertisement 
would  express  all  I  feel.  'For  sale  by  private  treaty, 
a  highly  desirable  sporting  estate,  with  mine  craters, 
strong-posts,  assault-courses,  bombing-trenches,  hut- 
ments, and  an  open-air  theatre  with  oil-drum  fau- 
teuils — the  whole  in  an  excellent  state  of  preser- 
vation. Inspected  and  thoroughly  recommended.' 
A  cinema-film  manufacturer  would  make  a  fortune 
out  of  it." 

"Well,  G.H.Q.  might  do  worse  than  take  an 
official  film  of  this  show.  It  might  convince  the. 
people  at  home  that  the  Army  knows  how  to  organize. 
We've  several  'stunts'  on — we're  rehearsing  the 
Somme  battle  next  week  with  ten  thousand  'drafts' 
as  supers  and  no  end  of  black  powder.  Unfor- 
tunately G.H.Q.  won't  lend  us  any  live  Huns." 

But  there  appeared  to  be  a  multitude  of  inani- 
mate ones.  There  must  have  been  a  Kadaver  factory 
somewhere  in  that  camp,  for  in  every  trench  for 
bayonet  and  bombing  practice  there  lurked  an 
obscene  figure  of  straw  and  sackcloth  individualized 
as  Hindenburg,  or  Fritz,  or  Kamerad,  according  to 
the  taste  of  the  artist.  The  illusion  was  a  trifle 
obvious,  but  it  seemed  adequate  to  a  party  of  tdis- 
mounted  Bengal  Lancers  at  bayonet  drill  on  our 
right,  who,  as  they  lunged,  gave  a  homicidal  grunt 
of  satisfaction  and  showed  their  teeth. 

The  O.C.   suggested   a  gas  inspection,   and  we 


228  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

climbed  a  slope  of  sand  swept  smooth  as  a  glacier  by  the 
wind.  I  stopped  for  a  moment  as  I  came  to  a  party 
of  men  reclining  on  their  elbows  on  the  sand,  chewing 
bents  of  grass  with  bovine  content  while  a  sergeant 
discoursed  colloquially  on  the  art  of  taking  a  trench. 

"When  you  goes  along  a  trench,  don't  pass  any 
one.  It  ain't  good  manners  to  cut  a  Hun  dead — 
not  in  a  trench.  If  there's  a  German  lying  there, 
stick  him.  If  he's  dead,  he  won't  feel  it.  If  he's 
alive,  he's  no  business  to  be  there.  And  never  leave 
a  dug-out  so  long  as  there's  a  moan  or  a  groan." 

The  rest  of  this  lethal  discourse  escaped  me  for  we 
passed  on.  A  bombing  class  was  being  put  through 
its  paces,  and,  as  we  drew  near,  the  O.C.  thought  it 
discreet  to  take  cover  in  a  caged  trench  in  the  rear, 
for  they  were  practising  with  live  bombs.  The 
N.C.O.  was  a  realist  and  had  apparently  disdained 
such  precaution  for  he  kept  his  pupils  posted  in  a 
shallow  trench  in  front  of  us  with  no  other  cover 
than  a  few  sandbags  grouped  round  the  bomber  who 
was  about  to  throw.  The  bomber  drew  out  the  pin 
with  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his  left  hand,  keeping 
the  lever  firmly  clasped  against  the  barrel  with  his 
right. 

"Now  this  'ere  bomb  is  as  full  of  T.N.T.  as  a  egg 
is  full  of  meat,"  explained  the  N.C.O.,  "and  the 
meat  in  it  is  pretty  high.  If  you  waits  more  than 
five  seconds  after  you  let's  go  the  lever,  you — well, 
the  bomb  won't  wait  for  you — see?" 

The  bomber  stood  rigid  as  a  Greek  wrestler,  his 
right  arm  held  against  his  hip. 


DRAFTS  229 

"That's  it.  Now  remember  you  stretches  your 
arm  as  if  you  was  bowling  in  cricket,  and  you  don't 
hook  it  up  as  if  you  was  putting  the  weight.  You 
just  throws  from  the  hip.  It  gives  you  an  ache  in 
the  back  like  lumbago  at  first,  but  you  soon  gets 
used  to  that.  Steady  on  there,  my  lad,"  he  said 
sharply  as  he  saw  the  bomber  relaxing  one  of  his  fin- 
gers. 'Don't  do  that.  A  bloke  what  did  that  last 
week,  he's  got  a  white  cross  now.  He's  what  you 
might  call  'missing.'  Now  then." 

The  bomber  threw.  The  bomb  pitched  about 
sixty  yards  ahead — a  good  throw.  For  an  appreci- 
able space  nothing  happened;  and  one  or  two  eager 
spirits  stood  on  tiptoe  craning  their  heads  over  the 
sandbags. 

"Keep  yer  blooming  heads  down!  A  chap  what 
put  his  head  up  last  week  is  in  Blighty  now." 

As  they  ducked,  there  was  a  report  like  that  of  a 
6-inch  howitzer,  a  sheet  of  flame,  and  a  cloud  of 
woolly  white  smoke. 

"It's  not  what  you  might  call  King's  English," 
said  the  O.C.  to  me  as  we  did  a  half-right;  "but  these 
N.C.O.'s  talk  sense,  and  you  can't  possibly  mistake 
what  they  mean."  Which  is  true. 

We  skirted  a  sand-dune  and  came  upon  a  company 
drawn  up  in  ranks  some  ten  deep  listening  to  an 
exhortation  from  a  corporal  of  painfully  scientific 
attainments  on  the  properties  of  noxious  gases.  I 
suspect  that  corporal  of  being  a  Bachelor  of  Science 
in  private  life,  perhaps  a  University  Lecturer.  He 
was  much  too  good  for  this  savage  world. 


-230  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

The  men,  who  were  standing  easy,  glanced  at  him 
suspiciously  from  time  to  time  as  though  they 
thought  they  were  being  "had." 

"Never  breathe  into  your  mask,"  the  corporal 
was  saying,  "or  you'll  get  it  full  of  your  own," 
the  wind  carried  his  voice  away  for  a  moment — 
"di-oxide." 

"That  bloke  don't  know  what  he's  talking  about; 
Vs  balmy,"  muttered  a  man  with  a  Cockney  accent 
a  few  yards  away  as  he  examined  his  gas  mask. 
"It  ain't  oxhide;  it's  flannel." 

"He  means  the  gas  what  you  breathes  out  of  your 
inside,  Bert,"  said  his  neighbour  helpfully. 

The  speaker  stared  sullenly.  "I  don't  breathe 
any  gas  out  of  my  inside,"  he  retorted  combatively, 
"I  ain't  a  blinkin'  sewer." 

"Stop  talking  in  the  ranks,"  shouted  the  sergeant. 

"Use  the  tube  and  breathe  gently  through  that," 
continued  the  lecturer  in  a  refined  voice.  "Don't 
take  deep  breaths  or  you'll  get  some  gas  in.  It's 
owing  to  officers  and  men  moving  up  and  down  the 
line  and  breathing  hard  that  they  get  slightly  gassed. 
Don't  exert  yourselves  too  much." 

"Now  he's  talking  sense,"  said  Bert  approvingly, 
"what  price  fatigues?" 

The  O.C.  and  I  had  withdrawn  to  the  shelter  of 
a  clump  of  elders  to  light  a  cigarette  as  the  lecturer 
digressed  to  the  subject  of  gas  blankets  and  ver- 
morel  solution.  Occasionally,  as  he  raised  his  voice, 
some  of  his  sacramental  words  such  as  "cyanosis" 
and  "pulmonary  epithelium"  reached  us,  followed 


DRAFTS  231 

always  by  a  profane  commentary  from  the  furtive 
couple  behind  the  elder. 

"Ammonia  inhalations  from  the  capsules  should 
be  immediately  given  by  the  stretcher-bearers,"  said 
the  lecturer. 

"They'll  have  to  give  the  poor  bloke  first-aid  with 
a  dictionary  if  they  talk  to  him  like  that." 

"I  will  now  proceed  to  say  a  few  words  about 
tear-shells.  Tear-shells  look  like  'duds.'  They  don't 
explode  at  first;  the  fuse  only  burns  enough  to  set 
the  gas  going.  The  gas  is  phosgene.  This  induces 
irritation  of  the  lachrymatory  glands " 

"What's  'e  getting  at  now,  Bert?" 

"I  dunno.  I  fink  he  means  it  makes  yer  do  a 
weep." 

"I  wonder  whether  it  'ud  make  a  Jock  weep," 
ruminated  the  other  doubtfully.  "Funny  chaps 
the  Scotties.  I  know  a  chap  what  knew  one — knew 
one,  mind  yer.  He  used  ter  say  as  it  took  two  years 
to  know  a  Scotty,  but  after  that  Vd  eat  out  of  yer 
hand." 

"Ah!  The  Hun's  a  funny  blighter,  Alf.  He's 
always  'off  side.'  His  notion  of  starting  a  fight  is  to 
begin  by  kicking  you  in  the  guts.  .  .  .  Say,  Alf, 
if  you  met  a  Hun  wot  put  his  hands  up  and  said: 
'I've  got  a  wife  and  ten  children,'  what  'ud  you 
do?" 

"I  should  say:  'Yer  oughter  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self.' But  I  dunno.  I  might  give  the  blighter  a  fag 
and  tell  him  to  'op  it.  And  I  might  not." 

"Shun!"  shouted  the  sergeant.     "The  company 


232  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

will  now  march  in  single  file  into  the  trench  begin- 
ning with  No.  I  of  the  rear  rank.  Right  about 
t-u-r-rn.  Quick — Mar-rch ! " 

They  filed  into  the  revetted  trench,  some  forty 
yards  in  length,  in  which  a  small  flask  had  been 
placed.  It  was  a  decanter  of  phosgene  of  the  choicest 
vintage.  We  moved  up  to  the  exit  of  the  trench. 
I  caught  a  whiff  of  something  colourless,  pungent, 
and  sweet  as  pineapple,  and  my  eyes  smarted  pain- 
fully. At  that  moment  No.  i  emerged  from  the 
ordeal,  the  others  treading  on  his  heels.  They  wept 
copiously  and  with  hilarity  as  though  they  had  all 
been  attacked  by  a  fit  of  hysteria.  But  a  very  phleg- 
matic hysteria.  It  would  have  disappointed  the 
Hun. 

"Genuine  sorrow,  I  calls  it,"  said  one. 

"Like  pepper,"  commented  another.  "I  ain't 
wept  like  that  since  I  was  a  nipper." 

"I'm  feeling  that  bereaved  I  fink  I   could  bury 
some   pore   chap,   Alf.     What   price   that   blinking 
corporal  ? " 
\    "Fall  in,"  shouted  the  sergeant.     "'Elmets  on!" 

Each  man  carried  in  his  hands  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  gas  helmets  of  flannelette,  soaked  in  a 
solution  of  glycerine  and  caustic  soda,  which  you 
slip  over  your  head  like  a  sack.  But  there  are 
different  ways  of  doing  it.  Some  held  it  as  though 
it  were  a  nose-bag  and  began  mouth  first,  tossing 
it  over  their  heads  like  a  horse  determined  to  get 
the  last  oat.  Others  put  it  on  as  a  child  puts  on  a 
paper  cap  out  of  a  'cracker/  carefully  pulling  it 


DRAFTS  233 

down  on  both  sides  as  though  afraid  of  tearing  it. 
They  all  proceeded  to  tie  the  strings  demurely  under 
the  chin  like  a  dairymaid  with  a  sun-bonnet.  From 
each  helmet  protruded  a  snout  of  gutta-percha,  and 
as  they  breathed  heavily  little  drops  of  saliva  glis- 
tened on  the  end  of  it.  They  then  turned  and 
glared  at  each  other  through  the  goggle-like  eye-holes. 
Here  surely  was  the  fraternity  of  "The  Black  Hand." 
They  looked  like  a  secret  murder  society. 

"Fancy  that  coming  at  you  in  dead  silence  over 
the  top  with  the  point  of  the  bayonet!"  commented 
the  O.C. 

They  filed  off  into  a  subterranean  chamber — with 
an  emergency  exit — where  a  retort  lay  in  wait  for 
them  with  a  gas  of  eight  atmospheres  or  a  pressure 
of  about  1 20  Ib.  to  a  square  inch.  As  the  man  in 
charge  turned  on  the  tap  the  fog-coloured  smoke 
escaped  in  little  wisps  through  the  chinks  of  the 
chamber,  and  giving  it  a  wide  berth  we  strolled 
away.  A  whiff  of  that  gas  and  you  feel  as  if  the 
blade  of  a  knife  were  going  down  your  lungs.  The 
corporal  was  adding  a  few  belated  platitudes  to  his 
hooded  pupils  about  the  advisability  of  reserving 
your  gas  helmet  for  use  against  gas. 

"That  fellow  seems  to  alternate  between  the 
obscure  and  the  obvious,"  I  remarked  to  the  O.C. 
as  we  walked  noiselessly  down  the  sandy  slope. 

"True,"  rejoined  the  O.C.  "But  there  is  some- 
thing in  what  he  says  about  gas  helmets  being  meant 
for  gas.  The  average  soldier  thinks  they're  meant 
for  a  Wolseley  valise.  You  know  the  story  about 


234  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

old   S ,   the   G.O.C.   of  my   Division?    No!    I 

thought  that  story  was  all  over  the  front,  from  Dan 
even  to  Beersheba.  Well,  he  had  a  passion  for  gas 
helmets.  Every  G.O.C.  and  O.C  has  a  bee  in  his 
bonnet — I  daresay  I've  got  one  myself — and  it 
buzzes  at  times.  With  some  it's  machine-gun 
emplacements,  with  others  it's  dumps,  with  others 

it's  buttons.     With  old  S it  was  gas  helmets. 

And  when  there  was  nothing  doing  and  he  got  fed 
up  with  divisional  routine  orders,  he'd  come  stalking 
about  the  back  of  the  trenches  seeing  if  he  could 
catch  any  one  without  his  gas  helmet.  Well,  one 
day  he  came  up  and  he  suddenly  discovered  he'd 
forgotten  his  own.  So  the  first  soldier  he  met  he 
stopped,  took  his  gas  helmet,  and  slung  it  over  his 
arm.  And  the  next  moment  whom  should  he  meet 
but  one  of  our  subs  without  a  helmet.  'What's 
the  meaning  of  this?'  he  fumed.  'Where's  your 
helmet?'  The  sub  stammered  something  about 
having  left  it  in  his  dug-out.  'I  don't  believe  you 
would  know  how  to  put  it  on  if  you  had  one,"  said 
the  G.O.C.  'Take  mine  and  show  me  how  you 
put  it  on/  So  the  sub  took  it,  and  opened  it,  and 
out  fell  a  pair  of  dirty  socks,  a  still  dirtier  towel, 
a  packet  of  woodbines — and  an  obscene  postcard. 
.  .  .  'What  did  you  say?  Oh,  no!  We  never 
got  strafed  about  gas  helmets  again.  Yes,  the  cor- 
poral was  right.  Mind  that  wolf-hole — my  men  are 
enthusiasts  about  wire." 


XVI 

THE  CANADIANS 
(April,  1915) 

IT  WAS  a  warm  April  day — so  warm  that  it 
might  have  been  midsummer  but  for  the 
anemones  and  the  wild  hyacinths  which 
gleamed  in  the  patches  of  woodland.  The  drab  and 
gray  monotones  of  the  winter  landscape  of  mud  and 
low-lying  mist  had  changed  in  a  few  days  to  a  scheme 
of  primary  colours  in  which  the  blue  of  the  skies,  the 
green  of  the  young  grass,  and  the  yellows  of  marsh- 
marigold  and  lesser  celandine  startled  the  eye  with 
their  sudden  improvisations.  It  was  one  of  those 
days  when  the  spirit  of  spring  takes  on  a  visible 
incarnation  and  the  mysterious  force  of  life  is  felt  in 
the  air  and  in  the  blood.  In  the  thrust  of  the  tiny 
crumpled  leaves  on  the  trees,  emerging  from  the 
buds  like  a  butterfly  from  a  chrysalis,  one  could 
almost  see  the  secret  impulse  that  animated  them. 

The  red  roofs  of  V glowed  in  the  afternoon 

sun.  The  front  and  back  doors  of  every  house  stood 
open  and  on  the  cobbled  pavements  the  dogs  lay 
with  their  heads  between  their  extended  paws  open- 
ing and  closing  a  drowsy  but  watchful  eye.  Except 
for  two  company  orderly-sergeants  who  stood  at  a 
door  smoking  in  intimate  silence  the  street  was 

235 


236  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

deserted.  The  estaminets  were  empty  although  it 
still  wanted  four  hours  till  closing  time.  The  ser- 
geants had  discarded  their  belts  and  presented  the 
neglige  air  of  men  who  are  "resting"  in  billets. 

"Some  day!"  remarked  the  taller  of  the  two, 
economically. 

"Jake!"  replied  the  other.  "Guess  you'll  owe  me 
a  dollar  to-night,  Jack.  The  machine-gunners  will 
knock  spots  out  of  them." 

"I'll  make  it  two  to  one,  if  you  like,  Bob,"  said  the 
first  speaker  confidently. 

"Done!"  said  the  other.  And  they  relapsed  into 
silence. 

They  fidgeted  occasionally,  as  from  time  to  time 
loud  shouts  were  borne  upon  their  ears  from  the 
direction  of  a  field  outside  the  village.  They  ap- 
peared to  come  orchestrally  from  a  crowd  of  men  all 
shouting  at  once  though  now  and  again  a  powerful 
voice  was  heard  above  the  rest  and  its  nasal  note 
repeated  the  same  theme  at  intervals  as  in  a  fugue — 
"Take-him-out-of-the-box!"  .  .  .  "Take  him- 
out-of-the-box!"  The  cry  was  repeated  from  time 
to  time  in  notes  which  alternated  between  menace 
and  entreaty. 

The  origin  of  these  sounds  was  to  be  sought  in  a 
field  hard  by  the  village.  In  this  field  was  a  crowd 
of  officers  and  men  who  had  posted  themselves  on 
two  sides  of  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  with  their 
backs  outward  an  angle  of  ninety  degrees.  The  men 
composing  one  side  of  this  V-shaped  formation  were 
cheering  lustily  while  those  on  the  other  were  fero- 


THE  CANADIANS  237 

ciously  silent.  In  the  centre  of  the  V  four  gray- 
shirted  men  in  khaki  trousers  appeared  to  be  engaged 
in  a  physical  attempt  to  perform  the  mathematical 
problem  of  squaring  a  circle,  or  circling  a  square; 
they  were  dashing  madly  round  from  one  point  to 
another,  touching,  as  they  went,  four  white  bags  on 
the  ground  at  the  corners  of  a  square  and  having 
apparently  as  their  objective  the  bag  nearest  the 
apex  of  the  V.  An  untutored  mind  might  have 
mistaken  their  efforts  for  a  variation  of  that  un- 
authorized form  of  army  exercises  known  as  "whip- 
ping to  the  gap."  Far  out  in  the  field  a  breathless 
man  was  trying  to  pick  up  a  ball  and  seven  other 
men,  gloved  as  to  the  left  hand,  adjured  him  with 
many  imprecations  to  "get  on  with  it."  A  ninth 
man,  his  face  covered  by  a  steel-barred  mask  and  his 
left  hand  hooded  in  an  enormous  leather  glove,  stood 
by  the  corner  bag. 

In  the  centre  of  the  field  was  an  officer  with  the 
peak  of  his  cap  at  the  back  of  his  head;  his  languid 
demeanour  and  the  spare  ball  in  his  hand  marked 
him  as  the  umpire.  Three  of  the  runners  had 
reached  "home"  at  the  corner  and  the  fourth  was 
straining  toward  it  when  there  was  a  flash  of  white 
and  the  clean  smack  of  a  caught  ball,  which  was  no 
sooner  caught  than  it  was  thrown  to  the  masked 
keeper  of  the  "home"  base.  The  latter  pirouetted 
on  his  feet  as  he  caught  it  and,  stooping  with  a  half 
turn,  quickly  touched  the  shoulder  of  the  runner  who 
at  the  same  moment  dived  headlong  for  the  bag,  as 
though  seeking  sanctuary.  Was  he  diving  or  had 


238  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

he  dived?  He  lay  prostrate,  with  the  catcher  up- 
right beside  him,  while  all  eyes  were  turned  from 
these  two  to  the  umpire.  No  imperial  gesture  decid- 
ing the  lethal  issue  of  life  and  death  between  two 
gladiators  could  have  been  more  anxiously  awaited. 
Without  a  word  the  umpire  jerked  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder.  The  runner  was  "out. " 

At  that,  the  sullen  silence  of  the  crowd  of  specta- 
tors on  one  side  gave  place  to  delirious  cheering 
while  the  exultations  of  the  supporters  of  the  "in"  side 
were  transformed  into  howls  of  execration  and  dark 
threats  against  the  umpire,  who  was  freely  accused 
of  "graft"  and  other  corrupt  and  illegal  practices. 

"  Safe  a  mile, "  yelled  a  voice  above  the  rest.  "  Use 
your  eyes,  umps!  Wait  till  you  come  to  me  with  a 
bullet  in  your  liver!  I'll  show  you  what  'out '  means, 
you  astigmatic  rotter." 

It  was  the  regimental  M.O.  He  shook  his  fist  at 
the  umpire  as  he  uttered  his  maledictions. 

"Go  it,  Dickie,"  urged  a  company  commander  at 
his  elbow,  encouragingly;  "you  haven't  begun  to 
warm  up  yet." 

"Kill  the  umpire,"  yelled  the  M.O.  with  lethal 
fury.  "Kill  him!  Scalp  him!  Tar  and  feather 
him!  Tickle  his  feet!" 

"Dry  up,  Dickie,"  said  a  subaltern  beside  him. 
"He  was  out  all  right." 

"That  doesn't  cut  any  ice,"  retorted  the  M.O. 
"Can't  I  have  a  yell  to  myself!  The  umpire's  got  a 
glass  eye  and  a  cheap  'un  at  that.  Take  him  away! 
Give  him  'medicine  and  duty.'" 


THE  CANADIANS  239 

His  soliloquy  fell  on  deaf  ears.  The  umpire,  who 
had  maintained  a  massive  silence,  suddenly  looked  up 
as  another  man  took  the  place  of  the  vanquished  at 
the  "home."  As  the  newcomer  grasped  the  bat,  he 
was  hailed  with  loud  entreaties  to  "knock  the  ball 
out  of  Belgium  "  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
sinister  assurances  that  if  he  did  his  life  would 
hardly  be  worth  living.  Meanwhile,  the  pitcher 
some  twenty  yards  in  front  of  him  and  the  catcher 
a  yard  or  two  behind  him  seemed  to  be  engaged 
in  mysterious  intercourse  in  a  deaf-and-dumb  alpha- 
bet of  their  own.  The  pitcher  was  juggling  with  the 
ball  as  though  not  quite  certain  what  to  do  with  it 
while  the  catcher  was  patting  his  gloved  and  un- 
gloved hands  together  as  though  inviting  him  to  join 
in  the  ancient  game  of  pat-a-cake.  All  this  panto- 
mime would  have  been  very  disconcerting  to  a  ner- 
vous batter.  It  was  meant  to  be.  In  baseball 
everybody  does  his  best  to  put  everybody  else  off  his 
game.  This  is  useful,  for  it  teaches  you  self-con- 
fidence. Also  courage,  for  you  will  get  no  encour- 
agement. The  next  moment  the  pitcher  suddenly 
brought  his  hands  together  over  his  head,  whirled 
them  round  in  an  ellipse,  and  suddenly  hurled  the  ball 
in  the  direction  of  the  batter. 

A  shell  whined  toward  the  field  and  dropped  with 
a  roar  and  a  great  spurt  of  black  earth  and  blacker 
smoke  some  half  a  mile  away.  The  spectators 
ignored  it.  The  Captain,  who  had  been  urging  the 
M.O.  to  still  more  inflammatory  efforts,  happening 
to  glance  in  that  direction,  noted  curiously  a  figure  in 


24o  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

yellow  baggy  clothes  and  a  red  tarbush  advancing 
across  the  field.  The  figure  alternately  ran  and 
stumbled.  He  noted,  too,  that  the  gun-fire  to  the 
northeast  had  swelled  to  a  loud,  continuous  roar. 
A  click  recalled  him  to  the  game;  the  batsman  had 
hit  the  ball  to  centre  field  and,  dropping  his  stick, 
ran  desperately  toward  the  first  base  about  ninety 
yards  to  his  right.  The  ball  was  fielded  by  the 
centre-field  with  incredible  velocity  and  thrown  to 
the  baseman  as  the  batter  measured  his  length  on 
the  ground.  Loud  shouts  of  exultation  arose  from 
a  group  of  field  ambulance  men  under  a  row  of 
poplars  on  one  side  of  the  field  as  a  third  machine- 
gunner  entered  on  his  innings.  The  new  batsman 
fingered  the  "bat"  nervously. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  it.  It  won't  hurt  you," 
shouted  the  ambulance  men  encouragingly.  "It 
ain't  septic." 

"Who's  bought  you?"  shouted  a  man  with  a  mega- 
phone darkly  at  the  pitcher.  And  he  proceeded  to 
make  a  number  of  defamatory  remarks,  chosen  with 
extreme  care,  upon  the  age  of  the  player,  his  deport- 
ment, his  choice  of  a  career,  and  his  private  morals. 
If  you  are  of  a  sensitive  disposition  you  had  better 
not  play  baseball;  it  is  very  bad  for  self-esteem. 
But  it  is  uncommonly  good  for  self-control. 

At  that  moment  a  man,  belted  as  on  duty,  thrust 
his  way  through  the  boisterous  crowd  and,  approach- 
ing the  umpire,  saluted  and  gave  him  a  bit  of  paper. 
The  umpire  took  the  message  and,  having  read  it, 
suddenly  turned  his  cap  peak  foremost.  He  raised 


THE  CANADIANS  241 

his  hand.  "The  game's  called/*  he  announced  in  a 
clear,  slightly  nasal  voice.  He  turned  and,  nodding 
toward  the  menacing  roar  in  the  northeast,  added 
with  a  faint  smile :  "on  account  of  the  rain ! ' ' 

Silence  fell  upon  the  crowd  as  he  paused  for  a 
moment.  Men  turned  one  to  another.  Explosions 
of  light  suddenly  appeared  in  the  northeast  suc- 
ceeded by  three  coloured  stars  one  above  the  other, 
which  scintillated  brilliantly  like  gems  for  a  minute 
and  then  went  out.  Two  company  sergeants 
appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  wearing  their 
belts;  they  were  panting  with  exertion  as  though 
they  had  been  running.  A  soldier  from  a  Belgian 
working-party  with  a  shovel  on  his  back  emerged  in 
a  patch  of  blue  from  the  crowd  of  khaki  and,  talking 
excitedly,  pointed  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction 
of  the  church.  The  crowd  was  like  a  field  of  oats 
suddenly  set  in  motion  by  a  breeze — each  individual 
member  of  it  seemed  to  be  flickering  to  and  fro 
although  the  crowd  as  a  whole  remained  stationary. 

"The  battalion  will  fall  in  at  once,"  said  the  sub- 
altern suddenly  in  a  changed  tone  of  voice.  "Heavy 
marching  order." 

The  breathless  sergeants  became  articulate. 

"A  and  B  Companies  stand  to!"  shouted  the  one. 

"C  and  D  Companies!  Back  to  billets,  boys; 
kits  on  and  fall  in,"  shouted  the  other. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  Captain  to  one  of  the 
o  rderly-sergeants . 

"The  Germans  have  broken  through  on  the  left 
flank,  sir." 


242  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Our  bet's  off,"  said  one  man  to  another.  "Tell 
you  what,  mate,  I'll  take  you  in  three  to  one  on  the 
M.G.'s  next  time."  The  odds  were  accepted. 

They  streamed  back  to  billets,  discussing  the 
match  as  they  went.  The  orderly-sergeants  were 
everywhere  at  once — on  their  flanks  and  in  their 
rear — rounding  up  the  argumentative  laggards  like 
sheep-dogs  on  a  hillside.  On  reaching  the  village 
they  fell  in  and  awaited  orders.  They  found  the 

streets   of   V choked   with   a  stream   of  men, 

women,  and  children — on  foot,  on  horseback,  in 
carts,  in  perambulators,  all  with  their  faces  turned 
toward  the  west  as  though  intent  on  some  desperate 
pilgrimage.  Incredibly  old  women  and  bedridden 
old  men  borne  limply  in  wheelbarrows  or  carried  in 
handcarts,  with  their  atrophied  legs  dangling  help- 
lessly over  the  sides,  were  being  pushed  or  dragged 
through  the  crowd.  The  Captain,  glancing^at  these 
human  derelicts,  noticed  curiously  that  one  ancient 
paralytic  reclined  in  a  barrow  with  his  hand  cease- 
lessly twitching  while  his  body  and  members  re- 
mained rigid,  like  a  poplar  whose  trunk  and  branches 
are  still  while  the  leaves  at  the  extremities  flutter 
ceaselessly.  Young  women  carrying  babies  at  the 
breast  and  with  children  clutching  at  their  skirts, 
their  twinkling  feet  taking  three  steps  to  the  mother's 
one,  stumbled  forward  with  the  same  set  look  upon 
their  faces.  Some  were  bent  double  with  the 
weight  of  large  feather  mattresses;  others  held 
bird-cages,  clocks,  cats,  caskets  in  a  close  embrace. 
Now  and  then  there  was  a  scream  as  some  cripple  fell 


THE  CANADIANS  243 

and  the  crowd  pressed  on  and  over  him.  And  from 
this  surging  crowd  there  arose  a  single  cry  as  though 
it  possessed  but  a  single  voice,  swelling  into  a  loud 
diapason — "  Les  Boches  viennent  !" 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  and  a  clatter  of 
hoofs  on  the  pave  behind,  and  the  crowd  turned  in 
terror  at  the  pursuit.  They  broke  into  a  furrow  and 
through  them  galloped  French  gunners  on  horses 
with  the  traces  cut,  followed  by  other  mounted  men 
driving  limbers  without  guns — and  mercilessly  lash- 
ing the  "leaders"  whose  mouths  were  white  with 
foam.  And  they  also  cried  "Les  Boches  viennent" 
and  passed  on.  They  were  followed  by  men  on  foot 
wearing  red  fezes;  their  livid  bluish  faces,  their  lips 
flecked  with  froth,  their  hands  fumbling  at  their 
throats,  their  gasps  for  breath  added  to  the  terror  of 
the  crowd  with  which  they  mingled. 

The  Captain  eyed  them  with  feelings  in  which 
anger  and  pity  strove  for  mastery.  "They've  got 
the  wind  up  and  no  mistake,"  he  said  to  a  subaltern. 
"But  what  the  hell's  the  matter  with  them?  They 
haven't  got  a  scratch." 

"Their  uniforms  are  as  clean  as  ours,"  speculated 
the  subaltern.  "They  can't  have  been  buried. 
I've  never  seen  that  look  on  a  man's  face  before." 

"That  pitcher  weren't  no  good,"  said  a  man  in 
the  ranks.  "They  oughter  have  taken  him  out  of 
the  box  long  ago." 

The  men  who  had  been  standing  easy  now  fell  out 
and  fetched  their  rifles,  packs,  and  ammunition. 
Water-bottles  were  filled,  nominal  rolls  were 


244  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

checked,  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  company  quar- 
termaster-sergeants were  incredibly  busy.  The  men 
squatted  on  the  ground,  wearing  their  equipment, 
with  their  packs  lying  on  the  "  kicking-straps "  be- 
side them.  They  debated  freely  the  respective 
merits  of  the  two  sides,  the  fielding,  the  pitching, 
the  catching,  and  the  prospects  of  a  game  that,  as  it 
happened,  was  never  to  be  resumed. 

"Comp'ny!"  shouted  each  company  commander. 

The  men  scrambled  to  their  feet,  and,  putting  out 
their  cigarettes,  put  on  their  packs. 

"Comp'ny!  "Shun!  .  .  .  Form  fours!  Right! 
At  ease,  quick-k  march." 

The  short  spring  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  the 
air  grew  cold,  the  shadows  deepened.  They  marched 
along  the  Ypres  road,  thrusting  their  way  through 
the  refugees  and,  turning  off  to  the  left  near  the 
asylum,  crossed  the  canal  just  north  of  the 
doomed  city.  Clouds  of  white  and  black  and  red 
dust  rose  above  it,  as  shell  after  shell  crashed  down 
upon  it  and  died  away  in  crayon  upon  the  evening 
sky.  In  the  west  the  sun  was  going  down  in  a  great 
conflagration.  The  air  was  still  dry  and  clear,  but 
to  the  northeast  there  was  a  faint  greenish  haze 
lying  over  the  fields  like  a  river-mist  in  the  cre- 
puscular light.  In  the  fields  on  either  side  of  them 
horses  and  cows  lay  dead  on  their  backs  in  uncouth 
attitudes  with  their  legs  sticking  up  toward  the  sky. 
A  vast  desolation  brooded  over  the  landscape. 
They  were  alone.  Not  a  living  man  or  beast  was 
to  be  seen.  Dead  men  in  bleached  uniforms  lay 


THE  CANADIANS  245 

about  in  contorted  attitudes — their  faces  livid  and 
on  their  lips  little  bubbles  of  foam.  Except  for  the 
intermittent  roar  of  the  guns  the  air  was  still  as 
death.  In  this  vast  mortuary  not  a  bird  sang. 

The  road  dipped  into  a  hollow  and,  as  the  column 
descended,  the  advanced-guard  began  to  cough,  then 
the  connecting  files  coughed,  and  these  phthisical 
sounds  were  gradually  taken  up  by  the  whole 
column.  Night  had  fallen,  and  in  the  dark  solitudes 
these  hollow  sounds  were  as  loud  and  distinct  as 
the  hooting  of  owls  in  a  wood. 

"Silence  in  the  ranks!"  said  the  Captain,  and  then 
he  began  to  cough.  His  eyes  watered.  He  sniffed. 

"This  place  stinks  like  a  damned  latrine,"  he 
said  irritably,  as  he  blew  his  nose. 

"It's  like  chloroform,"  said  one  subaltern. 

Another  wondered  how  long  it  was  since  he  had 
tasted  almonds. 

As  the  column  emerged  from  that  sepulchral  hollow 
and  breasted  the  rise  they  breathed  more  freely. 

As  they  neared  the  cross  roads  at  B shells 

began  to  whistle  over  their  heads  and  the  night  air 
was  full  of  strange  and  sibilant  voices.  They 
crossed  the  canal  and  at  that  moment  a  shell  fell 
in  the  middle  of  the  column.  The  men  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  stopped  dead  while  those  in  the 
rear  continued  to  march  until,  treading  on  the  heels 
of  the  men  in  front  of  them,  the  whole  column  was 
pulled  up  like  a  horse  that  is  suddenly  thrown  on 
its  haunches.  Confused  voices  were  heard,  and  the 
groans  of  wounded  men.  The  M.O.  was  down  on 


246  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS  \ 

his  knees  beside  the  prostrate  forms  flashing  an 
electric  torch  upon  them  while  he  masked  its  light 
with  his  Burberry.  The  shell  had  wiped  out  a 
machine-gun  team.  The  M.G.  officer  lay  dead 
where  he  had  fallen.  The  wounded  were  picked  up 
and  placed  on  the  wheeled  transport  and  the  battalion 
resumed  its  march.  No  one  knew  whose  turn 
would  come  next.  But  they  continued  to  march 
steadily,  each  man's  eyes  fixed  on  the  pack  of  the 
man  in  front  of  him. 

At  midnight  they  halted  by  the  side  of  the  road 

due  north  of  St.  J and  waited  for  dawn.  They 

found  some  deserted  gun-emplacements  and  estab- 
lished their  Battalion  Headquarters  therein.  They 
put  out  outposts  and  dug  themselves  in,  after  which 
the  men  snatched  an  hour  or  two  of  fitful  and  un- 
easy sleep  under  the  stars. 

The  morning  broke  cold  and  clear,  and  with  the 
first  flush  of  dawn  the  men  were  on  their  feet,  stamp- 
ing to  keep  themselves  warm.  In  front  of  them  was 
a  dark  wood  and  in  the  middle  distance  a  farm  and 
its  outhouses.  It  was  a  small  wood  and  if  you 
look  for  it  to-day  you  will  never  find  it,  but  its 
name  will  go  down  in  history.  From  this  moment 
the  battalion  was  split  up;  C  and  D  Companies  were 
ordered  to  march  off  in  the  direction  of  the  wood, 
where  they  were  to  join  up  with  the  Third  Brigade. 
As  they  marched  off*  by  platoons  in  file  they  waved 
their  hands  in  salutation  to  their  comrades;  it  was 
the  last  the  latter  ever  saw  of  them. 

As  the  sun  came  out  the  air  grew  warm,  but  not  a 


THE  CANADIANS  247 

lark  climbed  the  heavens.  Of  the  two  companies 
that  remained  one  was  ordered  to  move  straight  on 
its  trenches  in  open  order  by  platoons;  the  other 
was  to  advance  by  sections  toward  the  farm  whence 
they  moved  out  by  platoons.  They  raced  forward, 
and  as  they  approached  their  objective  the  German 
guns  got  the  range  and  opened  on  them  with  shrap- 
nel and  high  explosive.  A  dark  gray  mass  of  men 
was  clustered  round  a  farm  about  nine  hundred 
yards  away  on  their  left  front  and,  as  they  drew 
nearer,  this  mass  opened  on  them  with  rifle  fire. 
Bullets  licked  the  earth  all  around  them,  throwing 
up  spurts  of  dust,  but  the  shooting  was  poor  and  they 
advanced  steadily.  The  Captain,  who  was  sig- 
nalling officer  and  was  in  the  rear,  watched  the 
waves  of  two  other  battalions  advancing  on  the  left 
to  attack  the  ridge  and  as  the  German  machine- 
guns  got  to  work  on  them  he  noticed  that  the  first 
wave  grew  thinner  and  thinner.  It  struck  him 
that  it  was  extraordinarily  like  a  cinema  film;  he  was 
looking  all  the  while  at  the  same  picture  and  yet 
it  was  never  quite  the  same.  There  was  the  wave, 
always  there,  but  from  moment  to  moment  gaps 
appeared  in  it;  flickers  of  flame  came  and  went 
above  it;  little  white  clouds  appeared  from  nowhere 
over  it,  hung  about,  and  disappeared  as  though  they 
had  never  been.  But  with  each  cloud  another  gap 
appeared  in  the  line.  Now  and  again  it  was  wholly 
obscured  by  great  patches  of  coal-black  smoke  like 
enormous  ink-stains,  and  the  earth  shook.  As 
the  smoke  cleared  away  he  was  almost  astonished 


248  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

to  see  that  the  men — some  of  them — were  still 
upright  and  still  advancing  without  haste  and  with- 
out rest. 

"This  is  going  to  be  some  hell,  to-day,  eh,  what, 
Dickie?"  he  said  to  the  M.O.  who  was  on  his  way 
to  a  farm,  to  get  it  going  as  a  regimental  aid-post. 

"That's  so,"  said  the  M.O.,  cheerful  at  the  pros- 
pect of  having  something  more  professionally  ex- 
citing to  do  than  look  at  men's  tongues  in  billets. 
"I  guess  I'm  going  to  do  quite  a  lot  in  the  general 
practitioner  line  to-day.  Say,  old  man,  if  you 
come  my  way  I'll  patch  you  up  beautifully.  I've 
quite  a  good  bedside  manner." 

The  M.O.  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  envisaging 
everybody  else  as  a  possible  casualty.  Which  was 
rather  premature  when  you  came  to  think  of  it. 

"Get  along,  Dickie,  you  old  body-snatcher.  I'd 
sooner  die  a  natural  death,"  retorted  the  other. 
"The  Boche  has  slain  his  thousands  but  you  M. 
O's.  your  tens  of  thousands." 

"I'll  never  be  slain  by  the  jawbone  of  an  ass," 
said  the  M.O.  pugnaciously. 

"Now,  Dickie,"  laughed  the  signalling  officer 
good-naturedly,  "you're  getting  riled.  You're  bet- 
ter at  giving  chaff  than  taking  it.  You  just  hike 
away  to  your  consulting-room." 

The  M.O.  "hiked."  And  for  no  apparent  reason 
they  shook  hands.  But  you  could  not  help  liking 
the  M.O.  and  one  of  them  felt  it  might  be  the  last 
time. 

They  were  busy  after  that.     The  Captain  ordered 


THE  CANADIANS  249 

field-telephones  to  be  laid  out  from  the  farm  which 
was  to  serve  the  double  purpose  of  aid-post  and 
Battalion  Headquarters.  They  were  laid  out  to 
the  lines  of  unfinished  trenches  which  had  now  been 
occupied  by  the  waves  of  infantry.  It  was  neither 
open  warfare  nor  trench  warfare  but  a  curious  com- 
bination of  the  two — a  contest  of  positions  which 
were  only  half  entrenched — while  the  German  in- 
fantry hung  about  in  clusters  like  loafers  at  a  street 
corner  apparently  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or 
not.  The  truth  was  they  were  puzzled.  They 
felt  that  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game  the  Canadians 
had  no  business  to  be  there.  The  latter  had  one 
gun  and  no  aeroplanes;  they  were  being  drenched 
with  shrapnel  and  submerged  with  high  explosive; 
their  left  was  in  the  air  and  their  allies  had  bolted 
the  day  before  in  a  wild  sauve  qui  pent  before  a  new 
and  sinister  weapon  which  the  Boche  knew  to  be  his 
own  peculiar  and  nasty  secret.  And  yet  here  were 
these  verdammte  Canadians  coming  right  up  to  them 
and  making  themselves  extremely  unpleasant  with 
nothing  better  than  two  or  three  machine-guns  and 
their  rifles,  though,  to  be  sure,  the  rapid  and  accu- 
rate fire  of  those  rifles  was  something  to  reckon  with. 
The  Boche,  who  had  had  things  all  his  own  way  the 
day  before  when  he  bayoneted  inanimate  men  half 
suffocated  by  his  poisonous  gas,  didn't  seem  to 
approve  of  this  at  all.  The  Boche  is  like  a  large 
unhealthy  fat  boy  who  does  fearful  execution  in 
pulling  off  flies'  wings  and  thumping  very  small  boys 
but  howls  tearfully  and  cries  "  Kamerad"  when 


250  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

tackled  by  a  boy  who,  though  half  his  size,  is  a  match 
for  him.  From  that  moment  he  began  to  hate  the 
Canadians.  He  thought  of  him  as  a  mechant  animal. 
"Quand  on  I'attaque  il  se  defend"  When  he  got  the 
chance  and  found  a  convenient  barn  door  he  cruci- 
fied him.  The  Canadians  duly  made  a  note  of  this 
and,  after  that,  many  Germans  wished  that  they — 
or  the  Canadians,  preferably  the  Canadians — had 
never  seen  born. 

During  the  whole  of  that  day  a  storm  of  iron  beat 
upon  the  farm  and  the  position  in  front  of  it.  Shells 
ploughed  up  the  trenches,  burying  men  where  they 
stood  and  leaving  not  a  trace  behind.  Some  men 
were  blown  to  dust,  others  were  killed  without  a 
scratch;  it  seemed  as  if  not  the  engines  of  war  but 
some  mysterious  force  of  nature  were  blasting  them 
out  of  existence.  The  survivors  fired  again  and  again 
at  their  fitful  targets,  until  their  rifle-barrels  grew  hot, 
their  nostrils  were  filled  with  the  reek  of  blood  and 
burnt  cordite,  their  ears  stunned  with  concussion, 
their  eyes  half  blinded  with  showers  of  black  dust, 
and  their  faces  running  with  sweat.  Shells  formed 
huge  craters  round  and  about  the  farm,  shaking  it 
to  its  foundations  and  bespattering  its  walls  with 
the  filth  of  the  midden-heap. 

The  signalling-officer  found  himself  wondering 
how  long  it  would  be  before  the  Battalion  Head- 
quarters would  be  wiped  out.  As  he  sat  there  with 
the  C.O.  receiving  and  transmitting  messages  he 
felt  as  though  he  were  dwelling  in  a  haunted  house. 
Soot  fell  in  showers  down  the  chimney  on  to  the  hearth- 


THE  CANADIANS  251 

stone,  windows  rattled,  doors  opened  and  shut,  pic- 
tures fell  from  the  walls,  and  plaster  pattered  on  to 
the  floor.  Voices  shrieked  and  whimpered  overhead. 
And  all  the  while  he  was  conscious  of  waiting  for 
something  to  happen — something  was  surely  bound 
to  happen!  Would  it  be  the  next  or  the  next  but 
one?  No!  that  was  a  "dud."  Short!  Over!  .  .  . 

He  got  up  and  went  out.  There  was  a  lull.  Then 
the  storm  burst  forth  again.  He  began  to  count 
the  shells  falling  in  or  near  the  farm  and  the  trenches 
occupied  by  A  and  B  Companies.  He  counted  for 
fifteen  minutes  by  his  watch;  he  found  at  the  end  of 
that  period  that  he  had  counted  no  fewer  than  ninety 
high-explosive  shells. 

Night  brought  little  or  no  respite  from  shell-fire, 
but  the  enemy's  machine-gun  fire  died  down  and  they 
were  able  to  get  stretcher-bearers  and  ration  parties 
with  water  up  to  the  trenches.  The  M.O.  worked 
all  night  in  his  overalls,  dressing  the  wounded, 
injecting  morphia  and  anti-tetanus  serum,  and  evacu- 
ating them  on  empty  limbers  and  supply  wagons. 
When  dawn  broke  the  signalling  officer  was  ordered 
to  occupy  a  disused  trench  near  a  private  road  on 
the  right,  facing  the  wood.  He  had  not  been 
there  long  before  it  struck  him  that  something  was 
happening  in  that  wood.  Shells  were  raining  on  it 
at  intervals  and,  in  the  pauses,  he  heard  the  rifle- 
fire  of  C  and  D  Companies  who  were  holding  it. 
But  each  time  the  rifle-fire  diminished  in  volume; 
it  grew  more  and  more  fitful,  dying  down  like  a 
fire  of  twigs  that  crackle  and  consume. 


252  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Meanwhile  he  was  busy  collecting  "details"  and 
organizing  the  supports.  At  intervals  an  order 
would  come  in  to  supply  "two  N.C.O's  and  forty 
men"  to  some  hard-pressed  position  and  he  had  to 
start  reorganizing  all  over  again.  Cooks,  batmen, 
signallers — all  were  impounded.  A  military  police- 
man passed  on  to  him  every  straggler.  Derelicts  of 
every  regiment  in  the  Divisions — Scottish,  English, 
Canadian — came  drifting  in,  and  in  that  curious 
medley,  drifting  together  like  fallen  leaves  under  a 
breeze  after  the  storm  has  momentaril}'"  spent  its 
fury,  he  saw  only  too  clearly  the  evidence  of  what 
had  happened  the  day  before.  There  was  no  need 
to  ask  any  questions.  A  morose  Highlander,  a 
company  sergeant-major  who  had  lost  his  battalion, 
volunteered  the  information  that  he  was  "fed  up." 
He  seemed  dazed  and  was  argumentative  in  a  dull, 
slow  way  like  a  drunken  man. 

"I  thocht  this  was  a  war,  d'ye  ken,  sorr?"  he  said, 
thrusting  his  face  close  to  the  Captain.  The  latter 
noticed  that  his  eyes  were  tired  and  bloodshot. 
"It  iss  not!  It  iss  a  bluidy  massacre.  And  the 
Jair-mans  call  us  mercenaries!  As  if  there  was  siller 
in  it!  How  many  bawbees  d'ye  think  I'll  be  taking 
as  company  sergeant-major,  now,  sorr?" 

But  the  Captain  had  suddenly  put  a  field-tele- 
scope to  his  eye  and  was  gazing  hard  in  the  direction 
of  the  wood  about  a  thousand  yards  away.  "Here, 
sergeant-major,  stop  jawing  and  look  through  this," 
he  said,  thrusting  the  telescope  into  the  hands  of  the 
N.C.O. 


THE  CANADIANS  253 

The  effect  was  magical.  "A  cop,  sorr;  a  fair  cop. 
It's  a  sicht  I  dinna  expect  to  see  every  day.  Eight 
hundred,  do  you  think,  sorr?  Five  rounds  rapid 
will  be  enough  to  lay  them  out,  I'm  thinking." 

What  he  had  seen  through  the  glass  was  a  gray 
mass  of  men  hanging  irresolute  about  the  corners  of 
the  wood.  They  had  spiked  helmets.  The  Cap- 
tain gave  the  word  of  command,  the  company 
sergeant-major  repeated  it.  The  improvised  platoon 
with  their  sights  at  800  burst  into  a  splutter  of 
rifle-fire.  The  Captain  looked  through  his  tele- 
scope. The  gray  mass  had  disappeared. 

But  the  Captain  was  uneasy.  Something  must 
have  happened  in  that  wood  for  the  Germans  to  get 
through  it.  And  it  struck  him  that  for  more  than  half 
an  hour  silence  had  brooded  over  it.  Not  an  enemy 
gun  had  played  on  it;  not  a  sound  of  rifle-fire  had 
come  from  it.  ...  What  had  become  of  C  and 
D  Companies  ?  He  was  still  revolving  that  question 
when  he  saw  a  man  without  a  cap  running  from  the 
direction  of  the  wood,  bearing  away  to  the  right  to 
avoid  the  Canadian  fire  and  taking  such  cover  as 
the  ground  afforded.  As  he  drew  nearer  the  Cap- 
tain saw  that  he  had  bright  red  hair. 

"By  God,  it's  G !"  he  exclaimed.  It  was  the 

lance-corporal  who  had  had  charge  of  the  telephones 
of  C  and  D  Companies. 

"I've  managed  to  bury  it,  sir,"  said  the  fugitive 
as  he  arrived,  breathless  and  exhausted. 

"Buried  what?" 

"The  telephone.     I'm  the  only  one  to  get  through. 


254  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

C  and  D  Companies  were  cut  off  and  enfiladed. 
Sixty  per  cent,  casualties.  All  their  ammunition 
exhausted.  They  were  just  snowed  under.  Could 
you  lend  me  your  water  bottle?  Thank  you.  sir." 
He  took  a  long  drink.. 

Overhead  a  Taube  was  circling  like  a  hawk  over  its 
prey,  flying  as  low  as  200  feet,  so  low  that  they  could 
see  the  observer  looking  over  the  side.  He  dropped 
a  smoke-ball  and  a  few  minutes  later  a  "coalbox" 
landed  just  short  of  the  trench  and  threw  up  a 
spray  of  loamy  dirt  which  covered  them  from  foot 
to  head  and  filled  their  eyes  and  nostrils,  half  blind- 
ing them.  At  that  moment  a  runner  arrived  with  a 
message  from  Battalion  Headquarters.  They  were 
to  fall  back.  The  German  line  which  had  been 
concave  before  the  enemy  had  taken  the  wood  was 
now  convex  and  was  thrusting  forward  in  a  great 
bulge. 

As  they  approached  the  farm,  upon  which  A  and 
B  Companies  were  retiring,  a  shell  landed  on  the  roof. 
When  the  pillar  of  cloud  cleared  flames  were  seen 
coming  from  it  as  from  the  heart  of  a  volcano. 
The  barns,  filled  with  straw,  were  blazing  fiercely. 

In  the  farmyard  stood  a  figure  in  overalls,  bare- 
headed and  with  arms  bare  to  the  elbow.  His 
overalls  were  splashed  with  blood,  his  face  was  black 
as  a  nigger  minstrel's  with  soot  out  of  which  his 
white  eyeballs  glared  with  a  fierce  glow  in  their 
irises.  He  was  shouting  orders,  directing  stretcher- 
bearers,  and  rushing  in  and  out  of  the  burning  barn 
carrying  the  limp  bodies  of  wounded  men  in  his  arms. 


THE  CANADIANS  255 

He  was  about  to  rush  back  when  the  signalling 
officer  caught  him  by  the  arm.  He  tried  to  shake 
him  off  but  the  other  held  him  in  an  iron  grip. 

"  Blast  you,  M !  Take  your  hands  off  me  or  I'll 

trepan  you,"  and  he  raised  his  fist.  "I've  got  men 
in  there,  I  tell  you.5' 

"I  know,  Dickie,"  said  the  other  softly.  "I 
know.  But  look!  You've  done  all  you  can,  old 
man,"  and  as  he  pointed  to  the  barn  the  roof  fell  in 
with  a  crash  and  tongues  of  fire  and  smoke  burst 
from  the  doorway,  scorching  them  where  they  stood. 

The  M.O.  stood  for  a  moment  like  one  dazed. 
He  shook  his  fist  in  the  direction  of  the  Germans. 
He  was  a  master  of  language,  but  for  once  in  his  life 
words  failed  him.  He  uttered  a  choking  sound  and 
turned  away. 

The  next  moment  the  farmhouse  itself  caught  fire. 
There  was  a  sound  like  the  popping  of  corks  and 
brass-caps  flew  freakishly  in  all  directions  as  though 
a  swarm  of  bees  had  been  disturbed.  The  S.A.A. 
had  caught  fire  and  was  going  off  in  a  fusillade.  The 
signalling  officer  and  his  men  rushed  to  and  fro,  pull- 
ing out  the  boxes  of  ammunition  and  throwing  them 
into  the  mud. 

They  fell  back  and  dug  in  again.  There  they 
held  on.  As  the  day  drew  to  its  close,  the  sky  be- 
came obscured  with  clouds,  and  before  night  rain 
began  to  fall.  It  fell  in  a  steady  drizzle,  wetting 
them  to  the  skin  as  they  hung  on  without  flares, 
without  wire,  without  sandbags,  waiting  every 
moment  of  the  night  for  an  attack  which  never 


256  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

came.  Two  days  later  they  were  relieved  by  rein- 
forcements, and  retiring  by  sections  they  marched 
back  to  billets  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  Out  of  the 
two  companies  that  remained  only  170  men  were 
left.  Of  the  four  machine-guns  they  had  saved  but 
one.  The  machine-gun  officer  who  had  umpired  at 
the  match  was  dead.  Of  the  eighteen  men  who  had" 
played  the  game  of  Machine-gunners  v.  Ambulance 
men  only  eight  survived. 

As  they  passed  "Suicide  Corner"  the  Captain 
caught  sight  of  a  somnolent  sepoy  sitting  against 
the  bank  on  the  side  of  the  road,  his  face  curiously 
gray  in  the  moonlight. 

"Lost  his  unit!"  he  said  to  himself.  It  was  a 
common  occurrence.  He  went  up  to  him  and, 
seeking  to  wake  him,  pulled  him  gently  by  the  neck 
of  his  tunic.  He  fell  forward  stiffly  against  the  Cap- 
tain. He  was  dead.  The  back  of  the  man's  head 
was  gone  and  his  face  was  merely  a  mask. 

They  reached  V at  dawn.     The  men  unslung 

their  rifles  and  packs  and  threw  themselves  down 
heavily  without  taking  their  boots  off.  And  for  the 
first  time  for  five  days  they  slept. 


'XVII 

THE  HUSBANDMEN— II 

"One  generation  goeth  and  another  cometh,  but  the  earth 
endurethfor  ever." 

IT  WAS  one  of  those  late  autumn  days  when  the 
"windfalls"  of  the  orchard  are  gathered  into 
the  cider  press,  and  the  farmyard  is  filled  with 
the  aroma  of  the  pomace;  when  the  last  sheaf  of  corn 
has  been  harvested  upon  the  staddles  and  the  final 
speke  has  been  driven  into  the  thatch;  when  the 
"  lands "  are  ploughed  and  cleaned  of  couch  under 
the  teeth  of  the  drag,  and  the  earth  is  dressed  for  the 
sowing  of  the  winter  wheat.  A  red  sun  shone 
through  the  autumnal  mists  of  the  morning,  dyeing 
them  to  a  flagrant  glow;  in  the  far  distance  the 
fan-shaped  elms  stood  out  in  a  sharp  black  silhouette 
upon  the  gray  screen  of  vapour.  The  fall  of  the 
leaf  was  far  advanced,  but  tufts  of  old  man's  beard 
still  hung  on  the  hedgerows  like  fleece;  a  few  leaves 
of  briar  decorated  the  intricate  pattern  of  twisted 
elder,  pallid  ash,  and  spiked  hawthorn.  The  one 
touch  of  bright  colour  came  from  the  hawthorn 
berries,  which  glowed  with  the  dark  crimson  hue  of 
blood  upon  the  hedgetops. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.     An  old  man 

25? 


258  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

was  turning  the  handle  of  a  swede-cutter  in  a  gabled 
barn  whose  high  roof  was  supported  by  oak  rafters 
and  tie-beams  festooned  with  cobwebs.  The  open 
doorway  of  the  barn  commanded  a  view  of  the  fields 
which  sloped  upward  from  the  edge  of  the  farmyard. 
One  of  those  fields  was  marked  by  deep  furrows  and 
salient  ridges  of  newly-turned  earth,  all  cut  with  a 
straightness  of  line  that  marked  the  work  of  a 
skilled  ploughman.  A  man  was  advancing  down  the 
middle  of  one  of  the  "lands"  with  a  cradle-shaped 
box  slung  against  his  waist  in  front  of  him;  he  dipped 
his  right  hand  into  the  box,  and  describing  with  each 
step  he  took  a  semicircular  movement  with  his  hand 
he  scattered  the  seed  in  front  of  him.  With  just 
those  gestures  bygone  men  had  sown  these  same 
fields  for  a  thousand  years  before  him.  There  was  a 
slow,  even  rhythm  about  the  movement  of  his  hands 
and  feet  as  though  he  were  measuring  out  paces  on 
the  land. 

The  old  man  at  the  swede-cutter  paused  a  moment 
to  watch  his  progress.  "It  be  loike  ancient  toimes, 
sowing  wi'  hand,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "This 
casualty  weather  hev  made  the  ground  too  hard  for 
the  drills.  And  them  tractors — I  don't  hold  wi'  'em. 
They  be  no  good  on  wet  heavy  soil — they  kneads  it 
loike  dough.  They  be  all  very  well  for  the  light, 
brashy  soil  up  Faringdon  way.  But  give  me  that 
boy  Dan'el  and  his  two  harses,  hey,  thatcher?" 

The  thatcher,  who  was  mounted  on  a  ladder  against 
a  rick  just  outside  the  barn  door,  looked  down. 

"True,  old  Jarge.     It  be  the  zame  wi'  thatching. 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  259 

I  don't  hold  wi'  these  new  tin  sheds.  If  ye  wants  to 
keep  a  rick  warm,  there's  nothing  like  a  good  thatch 
and  the  work  of  a  man's  hands.  Here,  William 
Tuck,  hand  me  up  some  of  those  'elms.  .  .  . 
Aye,  but  I  forgot  that  wooden  leg  o'  yourn.  It  be  a 
clever  piece  of  carpentry,  but  it  can't  climb  a  ladder, 
I'll  warrant." 

He  descended  the  ladder  and  gathered  up  some 
fabrics  of  combed  straw,  each  piece  a  foot  wide  and 
three  feet  in  length,  and  carried  them  up  the  ladder 
in  a  forked  stick  known  as  a  "shuttle."  Arrived 
at  the  top,  he  proceeded  to  lay  them  flat  against  the 
sloping  roof  of  the  rick.  For  some  seconds  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  tap  of  his  mallet  as  he  drove  in 
his  "spekes"  of  cleft  hazel  at  regular  intervals  into 
the  rick.  He  was  laying  the  "yelms"  like  the  tiles 
of  a  roof,  each  one  overlapping  the  other. 

The  old  man  watched  him.  "Eli  Riddick  do 
know  his  job  and  mun  make  dree  pound  a  week  at  it 
in  these  toimes.  Thatchers  be  so  scarce.  But  mais- 
ter  never  ought  to  hev  left  thuck  rick  unthatched  all 
this  time.  'Twas  tempting  Providence — and  the 
justices.  I  heerd  on  a  varmer  as  was  fined  twenty 
pound  for  't  t'other  day." 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  his  original  meditations, 
his  son  Daniel,  a  stout  "boy"  of  fifty-five,  was 
ploughing  the  field  next  to  that  in  which  the  sower 
pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way.  He  had  placed  a 
stick  in  the  middle  of  the  far  end  of  the  field,  and 
returning  to  the  near  end  had  hooked  in  his  team  to 
the  plough.  He  had  "set"  his  plough  somewhat  as 


260  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

a  carpenter  sets  his  plane,  having  by  an  adjustment  of 
screws  and  bolts  got  a  distance  of  nine  inches  hori- 
zontally between  the  right  wheel  and  the  coulter, 
and  another  distance  of  four  inches  vertically  between 
the  coulter  and  the  bottom  of  the  wheel.  He  then 
shifted  a  bolt  in  the  iron  head-draught  of  the  plough 
to  correct  the  "pull"  of  the  off  horse.  This  done,  he 
took  a  handle  of  the  plough  in  each  hand,  together 
with  the  reins,  and,  with  the  light  touch  that  was 
neither  a  push  nor  a  pressure  he  guided  the  plough 
straight  ahead  with  his  eye  on  the  distant  observa- 
tion post.  The  turn-furrow  of  the  plough  threw  up 
a  ripple  of  brown  earth,  which,  as  it  turned  over, 
showed  an  iridescent  gleam  where  the  pressure  of 
the  steel  had  polished  it.  As  the  nodding  horses 
and  the  ploughman  diminished  toward  their  objective 
they  were  followed  by  a  flock  of  rooks  and  star- 
lings, which  swooped  down  upon  the  creeping  things 
disinterred  from  their  home  in  the  earth  by  the  action 
of  the  plough. 

"The  boy  do  plough  a  straight  vurrow  to'ard  and 
vrom'ard,"  said  the  old  man.  "Though  aw  never  did 
win  prizes  as  Fve  a-done.  I  mind  I  won  a  silver  cup 
against  dirty-dree  ploughmen  in  the  year  vivty-vive." 

No  one  heeded  these  thrice-told  tales  of  his  former 
prowess,  and  he  relapsed  into  an  old  man's  silent 
reveries.  He  turned  the  handle  of  the  swede- 
cutter  with  slow  revolutions,  his  shoulders  bowed, 
his  chest  narrowed,  and  his  right  foot  advanced. 
His  breath  came  short  with  each  turn  of  the 
wheel,  so  that  he  stood  like  one  of  the  Fates  spin- 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  261 

ning  each  moment  of  his  own  existence.  There  was 
something  marmoreal  in  the  concentration  of  his 
pose,  as  though  man  and  machine  were  one.  A 
shambling,  ill-constructed  youth  named  Jacob  Fox 
was  engaged  in  feeding  the  hopper  with  its  supply  of 
purple  roots,  which  he  did  at  irregular  intervals, 
first  trimming  them  with  a  knife,  so  that  the  recep- 
tacle was  sometimes  full  and  sometimes  empty;  the 
ancient  man,  unmindful  of  these  gaps,  continued  to 
turn  blindly  like  an  old  woman  who  drops  her 
stitches. 

William  Tuck,  who  sat  on  a  milk-stool  splitting 
hazel-sticks  with  a  bill-hook,  rose  and  looked  down 
at  the  heap  of  hairpin-shaped  "spekes"  he  had  pre- 
pared for  the  thatcher.  He  stretched  his  dorsal 
muscles  and  emitted  a  low  whistle. 

"Extra  fatigues  I  calls  it,"  he  commented.  "I 
wish  I  was  a  soldjer  again.  I  can't  abide  the  vittles 
ye  folk  gets  at  home.  This  war  bread  be  like  the 
prodigal  son's — it  be  full  of  the  husks  that  the  swine 
did  eat." 

"Aye,"  said  the  old  man,  meditatively,  roused 
from  his  mechanical  trance.  "There'll  be  a  mort  of 
pig-killing  this  year,  I  do  think.  There  ain't  no 
offals  for  'em.  And  where  'ull  us  get  our  bacon 
arterwards?" 

"True,  old  Jarge.  The  Germans  'ull  have  a  sight 
more  o'  pig-meat  than  us,  I'm  thinking." 

"And  how  do  ye  figure  that  out,  William  Tuck?" 

"They'll  eat  one  another." 

At  this  Jacob  Fox  turned  a  horrified  look  upon  the 


262  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

speaker.  The  latter  noted  it  with  mischievous 
satisfaction,  and  proceeded  to  enlarge  upon  his 
theme. 

"Yes,  they  have  a  corpse  factory  where  they  boils 
all  the  dead  corpses  down  into  dripping  to  make 
lardy-cakes.  But  they  always  keeps  the  spare-rib 
for  the  officers." 

"That  be  an  ungodly  thing  to  do,"  said  the  old 
man.  "I've  heerd  that  eatin'  live  frogs  is  good  for 
the  consumption  but  to  eat  mortal  man — come,  now, 
William  Tuck,  thee  cassn't  belave  such  things. 
.  .  .  Though  I  do  remember  a  miss'nary  from 
the  cannonball  islands  as  did  say  something  of  the 
kind.  Be  the  Germans  black  men,  William  Tuck  ? " 

"Aye,  when  they're  dead — in  hot  weather. 
Sometimes  they  turns  green." 

"Ah  well,  dog  eats  dog.  You  must  'a  seen  a  mort 
o'  dead  corpses,  William  Tuck." 

"Aye,  that  I  have.  Hunderds.  Thousands. 
Stuck  my  entrenching  tool  into  'em  same  as  I  might 
this  bill-hook  into  Jacob  Fox  here." 

"Let  him  bide,  the  poor  natural.  Cassn't  thee  see 
he's  all  of  a  twitter?  .  .  .  It  do  mind  me  o' 
when  I  wur  a-digging  up  on  Longb arrow  Down  for 
a  party  of  gentlefolk  with  glasses  on  their  noses, 
what  were  studying  heathen  laming.  They  were 
all  round  us  with  their  tails  up,  same  as  if  we  were 
digging  out  an  old  vixen  and  they  a-waiting  for  a  kill. 
I  strikes  a  sarsen  stone  with  my  pick,  and  lo  and 
behold !  there  was  a  skellington  a-sitting  up  a-waiting 
the  Day  of  Judgment.  And  he  had  a  lot  o'  flint 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  263 

tools  with  him  to  help  him  cut  his  way  out  when  aw 
'eers  the  Last  Trump.  It  did  seem  an  un-Christian 
thing  to  disturb  the  poor  soul.  I  used  ter  double 
lock  my  door  for  a  month  of  nights  after  that,  thinking 
he  was  outside  asking  for  a  lodging.  I  never  would 
do  any  more  digging  for  those  ould  'newsy*  folk — 
a-poking  their  noses  into  other  people's  sepulchres. 
There  be  lots  of  'em  up  there,  Romans  an'  Britons 
and  other  heathen  folk — all  a-waiting.  I  do  often 
think  what  a  lot  of  'em  be  waiting  like  that  out  in 
France — poor  souls.  Do  they  give  'em  Christian 
burial,  William  Tuck?" 

"Zumtimes.  They  has  'em  all  registered  like  par- 
ish clerk — if  they  can  find'em." 

"I  once  peeped  over  churchyard  wall  and  saw 
parson  a-burying,"  interrupted  Jacob  Fox,  as  though 
anxious  to  show  that  he,  too,  had  assisted  on  such 
ceremonial  occasions.  "Aw  wore  a  white  surplus 
and  aw  said: 

"'Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust, 

1     If  God  won't  have  ye  the  divil  must!'" 

"True,  most  true,  and  well  spoken,"  said  old 
Jarge.  "But  I  do  think  ye've  got  it  a  bit  mixed  up 
in  that  mazy  poll  o'  yourn,  Jacob  Fox.  Not  but 
what  it  b ain't  a  very  pious  sentiment.  .  .  . 
Death  and  the  powers  of  darkness  do  seem  to  be 
abroad  in  the  land.  And  signs  and  portents.  I  do 
mind  me  as  the  very  night  avore  Abigail  Hunt  got 
news  of  the  death  of  her  youngest  lad  in  the  war,  I 


264  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

was  a-zitting  up  and  I  suddenly  'eers  a  bat  tapping 
at  the  winder.  And  I  looks  up,  and  behold!  there 
was  a  winding-sheet  in  the  candle.  And  I  knowed 
as  zumone  was  took." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  toilers  of  the  fields.  The  head  of  Levi  God- 
behere,  a  gaunt,  sinewy  man,  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. He  was  a  silent  man  soured  by  domestic 
strife,  and  he  placed  his  seed-lip  down  on  the  ground 
without  a  word.  He  was  immediately  followed  by 
the  thatcher,  who  was  reputed  to  be  a  "warm"  man 
with  a  Post  Office  Savings  Book,  and  was  respected 
accordingly  as  a  great  authority  on  high  finance. 
Each  proceeded  to  pull  out  of  his  capacious  pocket 
a  large  spotted  handkerchief,  which,  when  unfolded, 
disclosed  thick  slices  of  bread  and  cheese.  The 
thatcher  Js  rations  were  further  distinguished  by  the 
presence  of  a  piece  of  fat  bacon.  Each  of  the  others 
in  turn  produced  his  midday  meal  and  they  all  sat 
down,  slowly  masticating  their  food  like  a  cow  chewing 
the  cud. 

This  ritualistic  silence  was  broken  by  the  entrance 
of  Daniel  Newth,  who  proceeded  to  remove  two 
large  incrustations  of  loamy  brown  soil  from  his 
boots.  They  remained  on  the  floor  bearing  an 
exact  imprint  of  his  hob-nailed  soles. 

"Well,  neighbours,"  he  said,  sociably,  "toime 
to  hev'  a  bite  and  sup.  Let's  eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry,  for  to-morrow  we  tightens  our  belts.  If  this 
war  goes  on  we  shall  all  be  turned  out  to  grass.  There 
won't  be  nothing  else  to  eat.  We  starves  the  beasts 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  265 

and  they'll  end  by  starving  us.  There's  mighty  little 
oil-cake  for  the  cattle,  and  no  barley  meal  for  the 
pigs,  and  next  to  no  maize  for  the  poultry.  There'll 
be  as  girt  a  slaughter  of  beasts  as  there  is  of  men, 
and  what  then  ?  Hey,  neighbours  ? " 

"A  solemn  thought,  Dan'l.  A  solemn  thought, 
'tis,"  ruminated  the  old  man.  "There's  Blackacre 
Field  as  hev'  been  under  roots  these  seven  year,  and 
is  now  given  over  to  whate,  and  what  'ull  the  cattle 
do  for  winter  vittles  then?  Die  they  must  loike 
burnt  offerings — 'tis  a  sacrifice,  sure  it  is.  It  do 
mind  me  o'  the  old  toime,  when  I  saw  meat  only 
once  a  week.  But  there'll  be  a  powerful  lot  of  bread, 
there  will.  Varmer  be  ploughing  up  pasture. 
There's  'little  Scotland'  field  as  was  laid  down  in 
'79 — the  year  o'  the  great  blight  when  corn  fell  to 
vorty-dree  shillin'  a  quarter,  and  the  cattle  rotted 
in  the  fields.  A  terrible  year  that  was!  It  rained 
vorty  days  and  vorty  nights  and  the  corn  sprouted 
in  the  shocks,  and  cows  and  sheep  got  the  vluke  in 
the  liver  and  wasted  away,  like  a  maid  in  a  decline. 
And  half  the  varmers  in  the  parish  was  sold  up. 
'Once  bit,  twice  shy,'  says  t'others,  and  they  turned 
all  their  arable  into  pasture.  And  now  they've  got 
to  plough  it  up  again.  Well,  tis'  an  ill  wind  as  blows 
no  one  any  good.  It'll  be  a  tidy  toime  for  plough- 
men. There's  Dan'el  as  gets  twenty-nine  shillin' 
a  week.  I've  a-ploughed  a  hacre  a  day  in  my  toime 
with  two  horses  and  only  got  twelve  shillin'  for  it. 
And  Oi  could  drive  as  straight  a  vurrow  as  any  man 
in  the  parish." 


266  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Aye,  that  you  could,  veyther,"  said  Daniel 
Newth,  propitiatingly.  "We  do  all  know  as  you 
could." 

"Yes,  and  zow,  too.  I  do  mind  as  how  afore  these 
seed-drills  corned  in  I've  a-zowed  eleven  acres  of 
rye,  which  is  eleven  sacks,  in  a  day.  Rye  takes 
some  zowing! — short  steps,  and  a  full  handful  from 
the  seed-lip  for  each  step.  .  .  .  Ye've  an  easy 
job  ploughing  this  year,  Dan'I,  after  the  roots. 
Those  roots  have  been  hoed  clane  of  charlock  and 
clytes  and  couch,  and  ye've  no  skim-ploughing  to 
do.  Them  lands  are  as  clane  as  my  hand." 

"Well,  there'll  be  a  good  time  coming  for  Eli  Rud- 

dick,"   said  the  ploughman.     "He'll  be  thatching 

day  in,  day  out,  next  year.     Ye'll  be  buying  housen 

zoon,  Eli.     Ye  must  have  saved  a  tidy  bit.     What  do 

ee  put  it  in,  if  I  may  so  ax  ? " 

"I  lends  it  to  Government,"  said  Eli  Ruddick, 
shortly. 

"Well,  it  be  better  than  laying  yer  talents  up  in  a 
napkin,"  said  the  old  man  reflectively.  "But  what 
I  zays  is,  'Spend  it  as  quick  as  yer  can.'  'Tis  the 
end  of  the  world  coming,  sure  it  is,  when  all  earthly 
things  'ull  pass  away.  Or  lend  it  to  the  Lord.  I 
did  put  an  extra  penny  in  the  plate  last  Sunday." 

"A  good  hinvestment,  old  Jarge,"  said  Levi  God- 
behere,  gloomily  breaking  his  long  silence.  "A 
good  investment  it  be.  Ye  gets  a  hundred  per  cent, 
on  it.  I  do  mind  that  hymn  they  sings  in  church 
when  the  sidesmen  comes  round  with  the  plate  all 
looking  t'other  way,  and  pretending  not  to  see  the 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  267 

trouser-buttons  what  some  folks  drops  in.      How 
do  it  go? 

"  Whatever,  Lord,  we  gives  to  Thee 
Repaid  a  hundredfold  shall  be 

"Well,  us  brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  us 
can  take  nothing  out.  Though  I  suppose  the 
Almighty  'ull  allow  William  Tuck  to  keep  his  wooden 
leg.  .  .  .  How  be  getting  on  wi'  that  leg  o' 
yourn,  William  Tuck?"  said  the  old  man,  for  whom 
the  soldier's  wooden  limb  had  an  inexhaustible  fas- 
cination. 

"It  be  a  useful  tool  to  hev!  A  very  useful  tool. 
Oi  can  plant  taters  wi'  un.  .  .  .  Them  doctors 
can  do  most  wonderful  things.  They'll  graft  and 
prune  ye  like  a  rose  bush.  I  know'd  a  chap  as  had 
half  his  face  blown  away,  and  one  eye  gone  to 
kingdom  come — a  terrible  sight  he  wur.  Thje  birds 
could  ha'  flown  in  an'  out  of  his  face  like  an  old 
ruin.  And  they  builded  'un  a  new  face  wi'  a  glass  eye 
so  as  his  own  mother  wouldn't  a  know'd  the  difference. 
They  could  cut  up  Jacob  Fox  here  like  butcher's  meat 
and  put  'un  together  again,  if  they  had  a  mind.  And 
make  quite  a  pretty  man  of  'un,  too." 

"How  much  do  'ee  think  they'd  charge  a  body  for 
doing  it,  Mr.  Tuck?"  said  Jacob,  who  had  been 
sadly  ill-favoured  by  Nature. 

"Jacob  Fox,"  said  the  old  man,  reproachfully, 
"Doan't  'ee  brivet  about  that  headpiece  o'  yourn 
so.  It's  a  gift  of  God,  and  ye  mun  make  the  best 
of  it.  We  do  all  know  ye  be  a  wonderful  ugly 


268  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

man,  the  ugliest  man  in  the  parish,  hain't  he, 
neighbours?" 

"Aye,  that  he  be,"  they  all  echoed,  studying  his 
homely  features  with  critical  attention.  "You  be  a 
wonderful  plain-featured  man,  Jacob  Fox." 

"Well,  Oi  do  mind  a  horse  as  took  quite  a  fancy  to 
me,"  said  Jacob,  desperately.  "It  wur  thuck  gray 
mare  of  maister's.  She  would  follow  Oi  about  like  a 
bitch." 

"YeVe  a  wonderful  soothing  way  wi'  horses, 
Jacob,  there's  no  denying  it,"  said  Daniel  Newth. 
"I  never  zeed  such  a  chap  for  coaxing  'em  into  a 
halter."  jj 

"Well,  neighbours,"  said  Jacob,  tremulously, 
"it  do  seem  to  Oi  as  dumb  animals  be  more  human 
than  men.  Meaning  no  offence,  friends  and  neigh- 
bours all." 

"How  do  'ee  figure  that  out,  Jacob  Fox?"  said  the 
old  man,  magisterially.  "It  be  a  heathen  thing  to 
say." 

"  Because  ye  never  see  animals  a-slaughtering  and 
making  war  on  their  own  kind.  Except  rooks." 

"That  be  a  deep  saying,  sonnies,"  said  Daniel 
Newth,  reflectively.  "A  deep  saying  it  be.  The  lad 
do  think  deep  thoughts  at  toimes." 

"Howsomever,  killing  do  seem  to  be  a  law  of 
nature,"  said  the  old  man.  "The  hounds  kill  the 
vox,  the  vox  kills  the  vowls,  and  the  vowls  kills  the 
worms.  .  .  .  William  Tuck,  have  ye  ever  slain 
a  German  Hun  wi'  your  own  hands;  smiting  'un 
under  the  fifth  rib,  so  to  speak?" 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  269 

"Aye,  that  I  hev.  I've  a-spit  one  with  my  bayonet, 
right  in  his  innards.  Aw  did  give  a  kind  of  grunt." 

"It  do  seem  a  fearful  death.  But  I'd  sooner  be 
bayonitted  than  hung.  I  mind  when  I  was  a  little 
'un  I  went  to  Hang  Fair,  at  Zaulsbury,  to  see  a 
woman  hanged  as  had  poisoned  her  lawful  husband. 
And  my  veyther  held  Oi  up  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd  to  see  her  zwinging.  I  mind  well  as  'er  had 
clean  white  stockings  on,  and  'er  kicked  off  one  shoe 
wi'  t'other.  It  did  give  me  quite  a  turn.  Still,  it 
were  a  sinful  thing  to  kill  a  husband.  Being  an 
offence  against  Holy  Matrimony." 

"True,  most  true,  Jarge,"  said  Levi  Godbehere 
darkly.  "Marrying  be  like  dying — ye  can't  escape 
it,  and  ye  never  knows  what  'ull  come  after  it." 

"Aye.  But  ye  can  only  die  once,"  said  the  old 
man,  significantly. 

"True.  I  takes  yer  m'aning,  Jarge.  Ye've  ha' 
buried  drew  wives,  as  we  do  all  know.  Ye  oughter 
have  dree  gold  stripes  for  it,  like  the  chaps  that 
have  been  wounded.  There  was  a  fellow  in  Win- 
terbourne  Parish,  Abraham  Love  was  his  name, 
what  buried  four  wives.  Buried  four  wives,  aw  did. 
Aw  had  a  beautiful  headstone  stuck  up  in  church- 
yard for  his  virst,  and  when  t'others  died,  he  had 
their  names  all  carved  like  a  nobleman,  one  under 
t'other.  When  he'd  buried  the  fourth,  aw  died 
hisself  and  there  warn't  much  room  for  a  subscription 
left.  So  they  just  put  Also  Abraham  Love,  hus- 
band of  the  above.  At  Rest.'  A  very  proper  sub- 
scription  'twas." 


270  "  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"A  very  proper  one.  I  never  could  understand 
how  King  Solomon  could  'a  put  up  wi'  all  those 
hundreds  of  wives,  all  at  once.  I  figure  he  must  hev 
had  a  girt  dorm-it-ory  for  'em,  same  as  they  hev'  for 
old  folks  in  the  workhouse." 

"I  do  like  to  hear  about  King  Solomon,"  said 
Jacob  Fox,  emboldened  by  the  success  of  his  last 
observation.  "Aw  wur  main  fond  of  animals." 

"What  be  the  lad  got  into  that  head  of  his'n  now? 
What  do  'ee  mane,  boy." 

"Well,  neighbours,  it  says  as  he  kept  dree  hundred 
concubines.  I  expect  as  aw  liked  stroking  'em. 
Though  aw  must  hev'  had  very  horny  hands.  I 
saw  two  on  'em  in  thuck  travelling  menagerie  as 
come  to  Marlbro'  last  year.  They  had  prickly  quills 
all  over  like  hedgehogs." 

"Ye  stun-pool,  ye  do  mane  porcupines.  They 
bain't  concubines.  Concubines  be  wenches." 

A  loud  sally  of  laughter  greeted  Jacob  Fox's  ex- 
cursion into  Biblical  history,  and  blushing  to  the 
roots  of  his  yellow  thatch-like  hair  he  retreated  into 
the  shadows  of  the  barn. 

"Matrimony  be  destiny,  depend  on't,"  said  the 
thatcher  as  the  laughter  subsided.  "There  was 
Liz  Rumming  as  hung  her  shift  inside-out  on  a 
gooseberry  bush  at  Midsummer  eve  and  sat  up  to  see 
the  form  and  features  of  her  fated  husband,  as  maids 
do  at  such  times.  And  about  eleven  by  the  clock, 
she  hears  footsteps  in  the  garden.  She  peeps  through 
the  buttery  window  and  zees  zumone  in  the  dark  a- 
tearing  her  shift  from  off  the  gooseberry  bush.  She 


THE  HUSBANDMEN— II  271 

tiptoed  out  all  of  a  tremble,  and  lo,  and  behold,  it 
was  one  of  the  shorthorn  cows  out  of  the  pasture." 

"There  bain't  much  sense  in  that,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"Bain't  there,  though,  Jarge!"  retorted  the 
thatcher.  "Inside  of  twelve  months  she  married  the 


cowman." 


"Well,  it  mid  have  been  the  finger  of  fate,"  the  old 
man  conceded.  "I  do  belave  in  witches  and  sooth- 
sayers. Ye  finds  'em  in  the  Bible.  Tis  allowed  to 
larn  things  to  come  from  searching  the  Scriptures. 
There's  this  attacking  of  Jerusalem.  It  be  very  like 
the  Second  Coming.  I  heerd  from  parish  clerk  as 
can  read  the  newspapers  as  soon  as  look  at  'em — 
a  clever  man  that,  sonnies — as  this  godly  man  of 
war,  Lord  Allanby,  is  to  be  greeted  wi'  loud  hosan- 
nas  as  he  enters  the  Holy  City  riding  on  an  ass.  A 
man  from  God,  sure  he  be.  And  there  is  some  as  do 
say  that  we  Englishmen  be  the  Lost  Tribes,  and 
Chosen  People,  so  to  speak." 

"Sure,  'tis  strange  things  be  happening,"  said  the 
thatcher.  "There's  lads  as  hev'  never  been  outside 
this  parish  all  their  lives  as  be  now  in  the  land  of  the 
Pharaohs,  a-making  love  to  princesses,  and  in  ancient 
Babylon  a-worshipping  strange  gods,  and  in  Africa 
a-riding  on  camels  and  laming  all  manner  o'  new 


sins." 


"Well,  I  do  hold  as  it  be  the  end  of  the  world, 
neighbours,"  said  the  old  man.  "There  be  wars  and 
rumours  of  wars,  nation  rising  against  nation. 
There  be  fire  and  brimstone.  There  be  engines  o' 


272  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

torment  in  the  heavens  above  and  in  the  deeps  be- 
neath. My  son  Dan'l  here  wur  a-reading  Luke  the 
twenty-virst  to  me  t'other  night,  and  it  be  all  there 
as  plain  as  the  palm  of  your  hand.  Famine  and 
pestilence  and  fearful  sights.  And  Jerusalem  en- 
compassed with  armies." 

"True,  most  true,"  said  Levi  Godbehere,  darkly. 
"I  mind  them  holy  words.  It  do  say  'tis  to  be  as  in 
the  days  of  Noe — folks  eating  and  drinking,  marry- 
ing and  giving  in  marriage.  And  so  they  be. 
There's  more  banns  called  in  this  parish  this  last 
year  than  I  can  iver  call  to  mind.  'Tis  the  separa- 
tion allowances,  maybe.  But  'tis  a  sign  and  portent, 
all  the  same." 

k  "'Tis  a  thing  to  turn  a  man's  thoughts  heaven- 
wards," said  the  old  man  conclusively.  "A  deep  and 
fearful  toime  it  be.  But  ye  can  see  by  the  sun  'tis 
past  noon,  neighbours."  And  he  arose  and  wiped 
his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

The  thatcher  took  up  his  shuttle,  the  sower  slung 
his  seed-lip  against  his  chest,  William  Tuck  took 
down  his  bill-hook  from  the  nail  on  the  wall.  The 
ploughman  hooked  in  his  team  again.  Each  went 
his  appointed  way.  And  nothing  was  to  be  heard 
in  the  barn  save~the  clank  "of  the  swede-cutter  and 
the  patter  of  the  orange-coloured  slices  as  they  fell 
into  the  bushel-measure  below. 


XVIII 

A  FARM  IN  ^FLANDERS 

THE  air  was  drowsy  with  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  of  the  downland — wild  thyme,  hare- 
bell, eyebright,  yellow  bedstraw,  and  creeping 
cinquefoil.  A  "Lulworth  skipper"  opened  and  closed 
her  orange  wings  upon  the  golden  petals  of  the  rag- 
wort as  though  fanning  herself  in  the  swooning  heat. 
Between  the  chalk  cliff  on  which  we  lay,  and  the 
Purbeck  limestone  of  the  opposing  headland,  the 
coast  curved  inland  in  a  sickle-shaped  bay  whose 
"waters  gleamed  blue  as  sapphire  in  the  July  sun. 
The  surface  of  the  channel  was  smooth  as  molten 
glass,  save  when  the  propeller  of  a  patrol-boat  left 
a  furrow  of  white  foam  behind  her.  The  complete 
absence  of  motion  combined  with  the  transparency 
of  the  air  to  give  Nature  something  of  the  fixity  of 
Art;  we  seemed  to  be  looking  at  a  water-colour  paint- 
ing. Borlase  and  I  lay  at  full  length  on  the  down, 
smoking  our  pipes  and  enjoying  the  view  with  the 
proprietary  pride  of  two  West-country  men  and  that 
sensation  of  unlimited  opulence  which  seduces 
every  officer  on  leave,  a  sensation  which  is  wholly 
subjective  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  state  of 
one's  account  at  Cox's.  In  fact,  it  often  leads 
to  overdrafts.  And  like  the  enchanted  disciple  on 

273 


274  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

the  Mount  we  talked  of  building  tabernacles — after 
the  war. 

"No  building  for  me!"  I  said.  "I  will  buy  me  a 
certain  manor  house,  whose  walls  are  as  jasper — 
walls  of  old  red  brick  sun-ripened  like  a  peach,  gabled 
roofs,  mullioned  windows,  oak  panelling.  .  .  . 
Damn  these  flies!" 

"And  I,"  said  Borlase  meditatively,  "will  buy  a 
farm  in  Flanders." 

"A  farm  in  Flanders!  Not  you,  my  son!  Don't 
I  know  them!  Cold  tiled  floors,  walls  of  mud 
and  timber,  a  courtyard  whose  chief  decorative 
feature  is  a  midden-heap,  a  landscape  of  pollarded 
willows  and  slimy  dykes  with  an  obscene  estaminet 
in  the  middle  distance.  And  no  cubbing,  either!" 

"I  didn't  say  I  should  live  there,"  said  Borlase 
slowly.  "  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  feel  it  belonged  to 
any  one  else." 

"Where  is  it?"  I  asked  languidly  as  I  watched  a 
golden-brown  fritillary  fluttering  ecstatically.  Bor- 
lase was  gazing  out  to  sea,  beyond  the  white  cliffs 
of  the  Needles  to  the  distant  haze  which  masked  the 
coast  of  France. 

"D'you  know  the  bit  of  country  between  Riche- 
bourg  and  Festubert?" 

"Do  I  not?"  I  said  feelingly.  "I  lost  my  way 
there  once  and  all  but  walked  straight  into  the 
German  trenches." 

"Well,  it's  there.  The  last  time  I  saw  it — and 
jolly  glad  I  was  to  see  the  last  of  it — it  was  mostly 
dust  and  ashes;  a  Jack  Johnson  knocked  it  endways. 


A  FARM  IN  FLANDERS  .,  275 

It  was  our  headquarters  and  was  back  about  three 
hundred  yards  behind  the  trenches — very  unhealthy. 
The  Huns  used  to  'search'  up  and  down  on  either  side 
of  us  with  their  smaller  howitzers,  first  up  one  side 
of  the  road  on  which  our  house  stood,  then  down  the 
other,  as  methodically  as  a  gardener  with  a  watering 
can.  I  used  to  watch  their  black  and  yellow  bursts 
creeping  nearer  and  nearer  with  a  kind  of  ugly  fas- 
cination and  wonder  whether  the  next  would  get  us. 
We  had  no  cellar  and  didn't  like  to  bolt  to  our  funk- 
hole  across  the  yard  for  fear  we  should  give  the  show 

away.     They   got   T that   way — I   found    his 

boot  afterward.  .  .  .  We  moved  into  that 
sector  at  the  end  of  1914,  having  been  in  the  whole 
show  from  the  beginning  at  Mons.  We'd  done  our 
bit,  too,  in  the  big  sweep  of  October  when  Smith- 
Dorrien  tried  to  roll  up  the  German  right  resting  on 
La  Bassee.  We  were  in  that  eleven  days'  fighting 
round  the  sugar-factory  at  Lorgies  and  after  that 
were  moved  up  and  down  the  lines  in  a  sort  of  game 
of  "General  Post,"  acting  as  reserve  to  the  division 
— one  battalion  to  a  division!  That  was  what  was 
meant  by  'reserve'  in  those  days.  We'd  trek  after 
a  week  or  ten  days  in  the  trenches  and  settle  down  in 
billets  and  get  the  camp  kettles  going  for  a  hot  tub, 
and  within  a  few  minutes,  along  would  come  the 

order:     'Be  prepared   to  start  for at  half-an- 

hour's  notice.'     And  we'd  start. 

"That  went  on  till  we  settled  down  more  or  less 
at  the  spot  I've  spoken  of.  We  found  fairly  good 
fire-trenches  when  we  took  over,  but  that  was  all. 


276  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

There  were  no  communication  trenches — we  relieved 
by  sections  over  the  open  ground — no  support- 
trenches  and  no  reserve-trenches.  And  here,  like 
Caesar,  we  went  into  winter  quarters,  except  that 
Caesar  rested  and  we  didn't.  No  one  who  has  not 
gone  through  that  first  winter  out  there  will  ever 
realize  what  the  Old  Army  endured.  We  had  no 
wire  at  first,  and  consequently  had  to  post  extra 
sentries  at  night.  We  had  no  flares — till  we  inven- 
ted that  stunt  of  sodium  in  jam  tins.  We  had  no 
trench  boards,  and  no  pumps,  and  when  the  water 
got  into  our  trenches  it  rose  steadily  till  our  men 
stood  more  than  knee-deep  in  a  compost  of  icy  mud 
and  water,  which  gradually  stiffened  round  their  legs 
like  concrete.  Our  company  sergeant-major  lost 
both  feet  that  way.  There  were  no  four-day  reliefs 
in  those  days;  we  were  relieved  about  once  every 
ten  and  even  then  at  least  half  the  battalion,  and 
sometimes  the  whole  of  it,  were  kept  up  in  close 
support  all  night  in  case  of  a  sudden  attack.  We 
were  always  on  the  defensive  and  the  Hun  knew  it. 
Raids  were  out  of  the  question — we  hadn't  the  men 
to  spare  and,  as  you'll  remember,  raids  were  never 
thought  of  till  the  November  following,  when  the 
New  Army  had  taken  the  field.  Besides,  we  had 
no  bombs. 

"But  we  couldn't  take  all  the  taunts  of  the  Jager 
battalion  opposite  us  lying  down,  and  it  was  then 
that  we  started  experimenting  with  the  'jam  pots' 
made  by  the  sappers.  We  used  to  call  our  bombers 
Tickler's  Artillery,'  and  if  they  didn't  terrify  the 


A  FARM  IN  FLANDERS  277 

enemy  they  certainly  succeeded  in  terrifying  us. 
You  remember  the  kind  of  thing  ? — one  of  Tickler's 
jam  tins  with  a  little  gun-cotton  priming  in  the 
middle,  a  fuse  which  one  lit  with  a  match  like  a  pipe, 
and  for  a  charge  pounded  crockery,  belt-buckles, 
shirt-buttons,  ten  centime  pieces;  in  fact,  anything 
we  could  lay  our  hands  on.  It  was  the  best  we  could 
do.  ...  Of  course,  we  had  none  of  your  por- 
table Lewis  guns,  only  the  old  heavy  machine-gun  of 
gun-metal  weighing  fifty-eight  pounds,  and  only  two  to 
the  battalion  at  that.  As  for  trench  mortars,  no  one 
had  ever  heard  of  'em  except  the  Hun,  until  the  sap- 
pers sent  up  their  improvised  stove-pipes — five  out  of 
six  were  duds,  and  the  sixth  gave  the  show  away. 

"And  night  and  day  the  Hun  pounded  us  with  his 
artillery — sprayed  us  with  shrapnel  and  blew  us  up 
with  H.E.,  and  there  were  our  howitzers  behind  us 
eating  their  heads  off  for  want  of  stuff.  When 
things  got  a  bit  too  warm  we'd  telephone  back  pray- 
ing the  C.O.  of  a  battery  of  i8-pounders  to  dust  the 
Huns  up  a  bit,  and  what  constantly  happened  would 
be  something  like  this — I'd  spot  some  Huns  with  my 
field-glasses  about  six  hundred  yards  away  making 
an  M.-G.  emplacement  at  their  leisure;  I'd  ring  up 
the  battery,  and  they'd  put  in  four  shells,  two  short, 
two  wide,  then  a  dead  stop;  I'd  ring  up  again  and 
the  answer  would  come:  'Sorry,  we've  fired  the 
ration — Four  a  day  is  all  we're  allowed/  Then  the 
Hun,  after  waiting  a  bit,  would  proceed  to  concrete 
his  emplacement  at  his  leisure,  and  after  that  there 
was  the  devil  to  pay. 


278  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"I  tell  you  it  was  heartrending — we  were  like 
Dervishes  with  spears  up  against  a  machine-gun; 
our  men  had  nothing  except  their  courage  and  their 
musketry — but  they  never  once  got  the  wind  up 
and  they  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  Huns.  It  was 
just  as  bad  for  the  gunners.  I  remember  old  Haig- 
Smith,  the  C.O.  of  the  Battery,  showing  me  once, 
almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  his  boxes  of  ammuni- 
tion: all  the  duds  saved  up  like  talents  in  a  napkin 
since  the  South  African  War  and  marked  'Sing- 
apore/ 'Hong-Kong/  Terth,  W.A.,'  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  else.  That  battery  was  put  on  low 
diet  and  for  some  unexplained  reason  it  had  to  be 
taken  like  medicine  once  every  twenty-four  hours; 
if  the  gunners  saved  it  for  an  emergency  they  had  to 
return  it  like  an  unexpended  Treasury  balance;  so 
they  used  to  fire  it  off  after  tea  on  principle  if  it 
wasn't  wanted  earlier.  Comic!  wasn't  it? 

"This  went  on  for  weeks,  and  week  by  week  I  saw 
my  pals — fellows  who'd  been  at  Sandhurst  along 
with  me,  men  I'd  played  poker  and  hunted  with  for 
years — knocked  out  one  after  the  other,  also  my 
best  N.C.O.,  who'd  taught  me  all  I  knew,  the  men 
in  my  company — all  knocked  out.  I  remember  in 
one  morning  we  lost  ninety  men  killed  or  mortally 
wounded  when  about  fifty  yards  of  trench  was 
wrecked  and  B  Company  split  into  halves,  left 
half  being  cut  clean  off  from  the  right  where  the 
communication  trench  joinH  the  front  trench. 
There  the  wounded  lay — and  rotted.  You  see  that 
damned  M.G.  emplacement  of  theirs  commanded 


A  FARM  IN  FLANDERS  279 

the  whole  of  it,  so  it  was  certain  death  to  try  to  get 
the  wounded  away. 

"I  tell  you  that  when  I  considered  the  heavens  in 
the  fire-trench  at  night  and  watched  the  eternal 
bombardment  of  Ypres  like  a  blast-furnace  in  the 
sky,  I  used  to  ask  myself  what  the  old  country  was 
doing,  and  whether  it  had  completely  forgotten  us. 
We  used  to  read  of  strikes  in  South  Wales  and  on 
the  Clyde,  and  speeches  by  stipendiary  M.P.'s  in 
the  House  jawing  about  'militarism'  and  threatening 
revolution  if  the  Government  ever  dared  to  introduce 
compulsory  service,  and  I  tell  you  I  felt  sick.  'Mili- 
tarism!' It  was  militarism  we  were  up  against,  evil 

incarnate.  D'you  remember  the  girl  P found 

near  Richebourg  after  the  Germans  had  done  with 
her?  D'you  remember  what  we  found  in  Warne- 
ton?  D'you  remember — but,  of  course,  you  know. 
How  much  does  an  M.P.  get?  Double  the  pay  of 
a  company  commander,  isn't  it? 

"We  heard  of 's  new  army,  of  course,  but 

hope  deferred  made  our  hearts  pretty  sick,  and  it 
used  to  be  a  standing  joke  with  the  battalion  to  say: 
'It's  rumoured  that  Italy  and  the  New  Army  are 
about  to  abandon  definitely  their  neutrality.'  A 
silly  joke,  I  admit,  because  we  might  have  known 
that  the  authorities  at  home  were  working  night 
and  day  to  get  a  move  on  and  succour  us.  And  at 
last,  like  the  dove  to  the  ark,  there  came  two  Ter- 
ritorial regiments — attached  to  us  for  instruction. 
Topping  fellows  they  were,  too!  And,  then,  as 
winter  gave  way  to  spring,  and  spring  to  summer  and 


280  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

the  floods  subsided  in  our  trenches,  the  New  Army 
began  to  arrive.  We  could  hardly  believe  it  at 
first.  And  it  grew  and  grew  like  a  grain  of  mustard- 
seed.  And  all  kinds  of  fancy  things  came  with  it — 
Stokes  guns,  and  Mills  bombs,  and  Lewis  guns,  and 
stacks  of  shells.  By  that  time  I  could  cheerfully 
have  said  nunc  dimittis,  for  I  knew  we  were  saved. 
I  felt  old,  very  old,  like  the  Johnny  in  the  Bible, 
but  like  him  I  could  have  said,  'Now  lettest  Thou 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace.'  I  tell  you  I  could 
have  wept  for  joy  as  if  I'd  sniffed  a  tear-shell.  But 
by  that  time " 

Borlase  stopped  and  gazed  out  to  sea  in  silence. 
He  was  silent  for  so  long  a  time  that  at  last  I  gave 
him  a  cue. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  said.  "I've  been  there.  But  I 
can't  see  why  you  want  to  buy  that  filthy  farm. 
You  know  you  said  it  was  all  dust  and  ashes  by  now." 

"So  I  did.  But  you  see  all  my  pals  are  buried 
there." 


XIX 

THE  ALLIES 

DOOZE    oofs,    see   voo    plaise  !      Compronnay, 
madame?" 
Marie  Claire's  lips  parted  and  displayed 
two  rows  of  teeth.     They  were  filbert-shaped  and 
very  white. 

"Oui,  Je  comprends  very  well.  What  you  call 
it  ?  Twelve  eggs,  yes  ? " 

"Non,  dooze,"  said  the  sergeant  stoutly.  And  he 
held  up  two  fingers.  She  noticed  that  the  skin  of 
the  inside  of  his  thumb  and  of  the  middle  joint  of 
his  forefinger  displayed  a  hard  abrasion  like  a  cob- 
bler's. It's  the  trigger  that  does  it. 

"Ah!  deux!  Ecoutez!  'Un  c'est  'one'.  'Deux' 
c'est  'two.'  Dites:  'deux'.  Comme  fa!"  And  she 
expired  the  monosyllable  from  her  lips  as  though  she 
were  blowing  a  kiss. 

"Do  !"  said  the  sergeant. 

"Non; 'deux'!" 

"Dew.9' 

" Bien  !  Tres  bien.  Voild  !" — and  she  produced 
two  eggs  from  their  nest  in  the  crate  and  laid  them  on 
the  counter. 

"Combien,  madame  ?" 

"  Fingt  centimes.     Mais  'madame'  ! — pas  encore  ! 

281 


282  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

' Mademoiselle9;  anglais,  'Mees'.  Voyez."  And  she 
displayed  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  as  though  it 
were  a  parade  inspection. 

The  sergeant  looked  at  them.  With  a  sudden 
movement  he  placed  his  hand  upon  them  as  they 
lay  upon  the  counter. 

"Non!"  she  said  coldly  as  she  hastily  withdrew  her 
hand.  "Fini!  Bonjour!"  And  she  turned  her  back 
upon  him. 

Sergeant  John  Lawrence  put  his  twenty  centimes 
on  the  counter,  took  up  his  eggs,  saluted,  and  walked 
out  of  the  cremerie  without  a  word.  He  felt  hot 
and  uncomfortable. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  he  came  again. 
Before  he  could  open  his  mouth  Marie  Claire  had 
placed  two  eggs  on  the  counter.  She  looked  at  him 
abstractedly  as  though  he  were  a  piece  of  household 
furniture  rather  the  worse  for  wear,  which  might 
soon  need  replacing,  and  said  indifferently:  "Vingt 


centimes" 


This  done,  she  turned  to  a  shelf  behind  her  and 
began  moving  the  jars  of  confitures,  occasionally 
pursing  her  lips  to  blow  away  the  dust.  These 
expirations  grew  louder  as  he  lingered  until  their 
blasting  effect  upon  him  emotionally  produced  the 
kind  of  functional  paralysis  associated  with  the 
effects  of  high  explosive.  He  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  back  of  her  neck.  He  sud- 
denly put  down  the  purchase  money,  pocketed  the 
eggs>  and  walked  out.  After  proceeding  a  hundred 
yards  with  knit  brows  he  stopped  and  ruminated. 


THE  ALLIES  283 

Opposite  him  was  a  dead  wall,  the  gable  end  of  a 
house.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  drew  out  an 
egg,  took  a  short  run,  like  a  man  practising  on  a 
bombing-course,  and  throwing  from  his  hip  hurled  the 
egg  at  the  wall.  He  noted  with  gloomy  satisfaction 
the  protoplasmic  effect,  and  taking  the  other  egg  he 
hurled  it  after  its  predecessor.  And  he  resumed  his 
walk. 

Four  days  succeeded  one  another  and  each  day 
Marie  Claire  rehearsed  a  frigid  reception  for  Ser- 
geant Lawrence.  She  rehearsed  it  in  a  newly-ironed 
blouse  and  after  carefully  washing  her  hair.  Each 
morning  as  she  rose  from  petit  dejeuner  she  prepared 
herself  to  resent  his  appearance;  each  evening  as  she 
sat  down  to  diner  she  felt  unaccountably  annoyed 
that  he  had  not  appeared.  She  began  telling  herself 
that  it  did  not  matter  two  sous  to  her  whether  he 
appeared  or  not.  She  told  herself  this  very  often. 

One  evening  toward  dusk  she  was  sitting  behind 
the  counter  engaged  in  knitting  a  tricot.  Her  needles 
clicked  mechanically  as  she  gazed  abstractedly  at 
the  wall  and  occasionally  she  stopped  to  count  the 
dropped  stitches.  She  heard  a  footstep  and  looked 
up.  Sergeant  John  Lawrence  was  standing  at  the 
counter.  Before  she  had  time  to  collect  her  thoughts 
he  had  vanished — vanishing  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
appeared;  so  suddenly  that  she  began  to  doubt  the 
evidence  of  her  senses.  But  on  the  counter  lay  a 
rose.  She  stared  at  it  for  some  time  and  then  sud- 
denly took  it  up,  burying  her  nose  in  its  petals  as  she 
inhaled  their  fragrance.  It  was  a  Marechal  Niel. 


284  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

She  examined  it,  pulling  back  the  petals  as  though  she 
were  peeling  an  artichoke.  But  there  was  nothing 
there.  It  was  simply  a  rose.  She  sat  with  her  chin 
upon  her  hands  trying  to  conjure  up  the  appearance 
of  the  man  who  had  laid  it  before  her  and  wonder- 
ing what  it  was  about  him  that  had  seemed  so  un- 
familiar. And  as  she  mused,  it  dawned  on  her  that 
he  had  a  rifle  slung  over  his  left  shoulder,  a  pack  on 
his  back,  a  water  bottle  on  his  hip.  She  rose  and 
looked  at  the  clock. 

"Marie  Claire!  Marie  Claire!  Diner,  Norn  de 
Dieu  !  J'ai  une  grande  faim.  La  soupe  est  froide  !" 

She  ignored  this  plaintive  remonstrance  which 
came  in  a  stertorous  voice  from  the  parlour  behind 
the  shop,  and,  slipping  a  shawl  over  her  head,  she 
stole  out  into  the  street.  It  was  curiously  empty. 

She  crossed  the  Place,  already  steeped  in  shadows, 
and  having  covered  some  four  hundred  yards,  she 
stopped.  Ahead  of  her  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
were  a  number  of  soldiers  drawn  up  in  long  lines 
two  deep.  They  were  in  full  marching  kit  and  in 
front  of  the  nearest  platoon  a  sergeant  was  calling 
the  roll.  It  was  Lawrence.  He  held  a  roll-book  in 
his  hand  and  as  he  called  each  name,  the  owner 
shouted,  "Here";  the  sound  was  taken  up  in  a 
series  of  repetitions  which,  as  they  collided  acousti- 
cally with  the  same  sounds  from  other  platoons  farther 
up  the  street,  produced  the  effect  of  a  prolonged  echo. 
Having  finished  calling  the  roll  Lawrence  went  up 
to  the  platoon  commander,  saluted,  and  made  his 
report.  The  company  commander  took  over. 


THE  ALLIES  285 

"Form"  Fours! — Right!  At  Ease — Qu-i-i-i-i-ck 
March!"  There  was  a  shuffle  of  heavy  feet  and 
the  long  lines  dissolved  into  columns  of  fours. 
The  men's  feet  went  "clip-clop  clip-clop"  on  the 
pavement  with  the  rhythm  of  a  pendulum.  The  next 
moment  the  street  was  empty  and  Marie  Claire  was 
staring  fixedly  at  the  tail  of  the  column  oscillating 
like  a  tuning  fork  from  right  to  left  as  it  receded  in 
the  distance  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
KT  Sergeant  Lawrence  having  cleaned  his  teeth  with 
his  army  tooth-brush  stood  in  front  of  a  mirror  and 
studied  attentively  a  fixed  smile — a  smile  which  he 
produced  and  reproduced  with  the  reflex  movements 
of  his  maxillar  muscles.  It  was  a  serious  smile  with- 
out mirth;  being  intended,  like  the  capacious  smile 
of  a  "chorus"  lady,  for  purely  exhibition  purposes. 
Dissatisfied  with  the  result,  he  went  over  his  teeth 
again  with  a  piece  of  charcoal  until  their  lustrous 
whiteness  convinced  him  that  art  could  do  no  more 
for  Nature.  For  some  days  he  had  knocked  off 
cigarettes  owing  to  their  discolouring  effect  on  the 
enamel;  he  had  also  been  at  pains  to  remove,  with  the 
aid  of  a  piece  of  pumice-stone,  a  large  stain  of  chem- 
ical brown  on  the  inside  of  the  middle  finger  of  his 
right  hand.  His  face  glowed  with  the  application  of 
soap  and  hot  water;  his  buttons  shone  and  twinkled 
like  the  stars  of  the  firmament. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  of  these  ministrations  he 
pronounced  him'self  "clean  and  regular"  and,  taking 
a  small  cane  in  his  hand,  he  walked  with  an  air  of 
studied  nonchalance  down  the  street,  a  prey  to  a 


286  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

secret  obsession  that  he  was  a  subject  of  morbid 
curiosity  to  every  passer-by.  As  he  reached  the 
corner  of  the  rue  Gambetta  he  suddenly  ran  into 
Sergeant  Robert  Chipchase. 

"Hulloa,  Jack!"  said  the  other.  "Going  for  a 
stroll?" 

"Y-yes,"  said  John  Lawrence. 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  said  the  other,  sociably. 

Lawrence  hesitated  and  was  lost.  He  fell  into 
step  beside  his  companion.  He  walked  some  dis- 
tance, replying  to  conversational  overtures  with 
monosyllables. 

"Qot  the  hump,  Jack?"  said  the  other  suddenly. 

"N-no,"  replied  Lawrence.  He  stopped  dead. 
"I've  forgot  my  handkerchief." 

"Strewth!  I  knew  you  had  something  preying  on 
your  mind  like.  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before,  mate  ? 
Here  you  are — use  mine."  And  he  tendered  first  aid. 

Lawrence  gazed  at  the  handkerchief  abstractedly. 

"Anything  wrong  with  it?"  said  the  other,  sensi- 
tively. 

"No!  No  offence,  I  hope,"  said  Lawrence. 
"The  fact  is,  Bob,"  he  went  on  breathlessly,  taking 
each  full-stop  at  full  gallop,  "  I-can't-walk-as-well-as- 
I-used-to — I-think-I've-a-touch-of-trench-feet-you'll- 
excuse-me-old-chap-no-no-I-can-get-back-to-billets- 
all  -right -don't -let-  me-spoil-your-walk- Bob."  He 
paused  to  take  breath.  "It'll  do  you  good,"  he 
added,  earnestly.  "So  long,  old  man."  And  he 
turned  on  his  heel. 

His   companion  gazed   after  him.       He  walked 


THE  ALLIES  287 

slowly  at  first,  but  his  feet  appeared  to  recover  their 
circulation  with  remarkable  rapidity  and  he  was  soon 
lost  to  sight.  Sergeant  Chipchase  soliloquized. 

"Sits  in  a  corner  of  the  mess  mugging  up  *  French 
and  How  To  Speak  It.'  Says  a  man  ought  to 
improve  himself.  Looks  at  a  pal  as  if  he  wasn't 
there.  Dreamy  like.  Never  passes  the  time  of  day. 
Asked  me  if  I  heard  a  blooming  nightingale.  .  .  . 
Christ!  It's  a  woman!"  And,  having  finished  his 
train  of  induction,  he  went  on  his  way,  whistling. 

Meanwhile  Sergeant  Lawrence,  having  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Place,  had  arrived  at  the  door  of  the 
cremerie.  He  reconnoitred  it  from  outside  and. 
seeing  two  soldiers  at  the  counter,  he  retreated. 
He  walked  up  and  down  once  or  twice,  advanced  to 
the  door,  and  again  retreated,  until  seeing  the  eye  of 
a  military  policeman  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  watching  him  with  professional  curiosity,  he 
walked  straight  into  the  shop.  At  the  same  moment 
the  two  customers  emerged  from  it. 

Behind  the  counter  was  Marie  Claire.  A  wave 
of  colour  swept  over  her  face  as  she  saw  him.  They 
stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"Bonjour,  M'sieu'  Douze-ceufs,"  she  said  at  last. 

Sergeant  Lawrence's  eye  caught  sight  of  a  rose  in 
a  vase  on  the  shelf  behind  her.  It  was  a  languid  rose 
with  drooping  petals,  long  past  its  first  bloom,  but  he 
thought  he  recognized  it.  On  the  counter  lay  a 
small  book  with  the  words  'Francaise-dnglais'  on  the 
cover.  He  suddenly  had  an  inspiration. 

"Madame "  he  began. 


288  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"Mademoiselle,"  she  corrected.  "Encore  made- 
moiselle. " 

"Mademoiselle  Marie  Claire" — (she  wondered 
where  he  had  got  hold  of  her  name) — "voulez- 
vouse  me  donner-lessons — French — pour  un  franc?" 

"Moil" 

"Oui." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Mamanl     hi!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  heavy  breathing.  "Maman" 
appeared.  She  was  large  and  round  and  so  richly 
endowed  by  Nature  that  her  chin  seemed  to  melt 
into  her  neck,  her  neck  into  her  bosom.  Where 
other  people  display  joints  her  body  exhibited  noth- 
ing but  creases.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  contin- 
uously in  short  respirations  and  the  purple  satin  of 
her  blouse  rose  and  fell  with  them  as  though  it  were 
a  natural  plumage.  A  large  dimple  appeared  on 
either  side  of  her  mouth,  giving  the  spectator  the 
impression  that  she  was  smiling.  The  "smile" 
was  perpetual  and  afforded  no  index  to  the  state  of 
her  emotions — it  was  one  of  Nature's  tricks  of 
camouflage  and  served  to  mask  a  variety  of  moods 
ranging  from  lazy  benevolence  to  active  rapacity. 
It  was  useful  in  business.  If  any  one  objected  to 
Madame's  terms  she  always  dismissed  the  objection 
with  "Les  affaires  sont  les  affaires,"  and  continued  to 
smile  with  the  same  impassivity.  She  was  a  typical 
bourgeoise. 

"M'sieu' "  began  Marie  Claire,  turning  inter- 
rogatively to  the  sergeant. 


THE  ALLIES  289 

"Lawrence — John  Lawrence,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"M'sieu'  Lorens  wants  me  to  give  him  lessons  in 
French,  maman,"  said  Marie  Claire  to  her  mother 
in  her  native  tongue.  "He  offers  me  a  franc  a  les- 
son," she  added  quickly,  seeing  her  mother  hesitate 
and  fearing  a  prohibition  of  such  intimacy. 

But  Madame  was  not  pondering  the  proprieties. 

" Deux  francs  !"  said  Madame  with  a  smile  of  bene- 
diction which  expressed  a  genuine  conviction  that 
it  is  more  blessed  to  receive  than  to  give. 

"Ohy  Maman!"  protested  Marie  Claire. 

But  Sergeant  Lawrence  jumped  at  the  stipulation. 
"Done!  Bong!  Bien!"  he  exclaimed  hurriedly. 
Had  Madame  made  it  ten  francs  he  would  cheer- 
fully have  acquiesced. 

Then  commenced  for  Sergeant  Lawrence  a  course 
of  "French  Without  Tears."  It  was  intensive 
training,  for  he  knew  that  the  battalion's  "rest"  in 
billets  was  short  and  he  took  two  lessons  a  day. 
They  were  given  in  the  parlour  behind  the  shop  with 
Maman  always  in  attendance  except  for  brief  and 
occasional  absences  when  a  customer  claimed  her 
attention.  During  these  absences  the  conversation 
took  on  a  less  Ollendorfian  character;  they  ceased 
to  ask  each  other  whether  the  gardener's  mother-in- 
law  had  the  paper-knife  of  the  tailor's  step-brother, 
and  Sergeant  Lawrence  found  himself  speaking 
English,  as  a  language  more  naturally"  expressive 
of  the  emotions. 

"Mademoiselle,  will  you  come  for  a  promenade?" 
he  said  suddenly  in  one  of  these  truant  intervals. 


290  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

She  hesitated.     "It  is  not  convenable." 

"Why  not?"  he  pleaded. 

"In  France  we  do  not  go  for  a  walk  unless  we  are 
— what  you  call  it? — 'engaged* — fiancee." 

"Then  let's  get  engaged,"  he  said,  decisively. 

"Parbleu!  To  go  for  a  walk?"  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  mirth. 

"No!     To  get  married,"  he  said. 

She  coloured  but  said  nothing.  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  seized  her  hand.  This  time  she  did  not 
withdraw  it. 

"In  France,"  she  said  at  length,  "it  is  not  conven- 
able to  ask  a  girl  that."  And  seeing  his  look  of 
astonishment,  she  added:  "You  must  speak  to 
Maman  first." 

"Bon!     Right  away!"  he  said. 

"Have  you  asked  your  papa?"  she  said  as  they 
waited  for  Maman9 s  return  from  the  shop. 

"My  papa!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  mean  my  old 
governor?  Lord,  no!  Nor  my  grandpapa."  He 
remembered  there  was  a  Table  of  Affinities  in  the 
door  of  the  church  porch  at  home,  proclaiming  to  ail 
that  a  man  may  not  marry  his  grandmother,  b«t 
could  not  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it. 

"In  France,"  explained  Marie  Claire,  "the  chil- 
dren do  not  marry  without  the  consent  of  their 
papas  and  mammas.  The  garqon  asks  his  papa  and 
his  papa  asks  the  papa  of  the  demoiselle.  Then 
there's  a  conseil  de  famille." 

"Lord  love  me!  It  sounds  like  an  inquest. 
.  .  .  Madame!"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet  as 


THE  ALLIES  291 

Maman  returned,  "I  would  like  to  marry  your 
daughter,  Marie  Claire.  I — I  love  her,"  he  added 
simply. 

"  Bleu,"  said  Madame,  with  the  eternal  smile. 

He  thought  she  said  "Combien?"  and  added 
hastily,  "I'm  a  platoon  sergeant,  my  pay's  two 
shillings  and  tenpence  a  day,  I  don't  chuck 
money  about,  and  I've  got  £50  in  the  bank.  I've 
a  clean  conduct-sheet,  Madame.  You  can  ask  the 
adjutant." 

To  all  of  which,  uttered  in  hurried  English, 
Madame  made  no  reply  but  continued  to  smile. 
For  Madame  knew  it  all  already.  How?  By 
a  series  of  judicious  enquiries  conducted  in 
many  quarters.  She  had  an  instinct  for  these 
things. 

Lawrence  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  the 
D.C.M.,  that  he  had  been  at  Mons,  and  that,  if 
the  Fates  spared  him,  he  would  one  day  wear  a 
medal  with  many  clasps  which  would  record 
"Mons,"  "Le  Cateau,"  "The  Marne,"  "The  Aisne," 
"Ypres,"  and  many  another  tale  of  epic  battles. 
After  all,  these  were  not  things  that  a  fellow  talked 
about. 

And  Marie  Claire  put  up  her  mouth  and  received 
his  first  kiss.  Maman  looked  on  with  a  mercenary 
smile,  being  engaged  at  that  moment  in  a  rapid 
mental  calculation  of  how  many  francs  there  were  in 
fifty  pounds.  Sergeant  Lawrence  wondered  whether 
it  was  not  " convenable"  to  kiss  one's  fiancee  except 
in  the  presence  of  her  maman.  He  wondered  also 


292  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

whether  he  ought  to  have  kissed  Maman  first.  He 
even  wondered  for  one  brief  moment  whether  Maman 
had  ever  looked  like  Marie  Claire,  but  he  peremp- 
torily dismissed  this  unbidden  thought  as  treasonable 
and  a  temptation  of  the  devil. 

Sergeant  Lawrence  had  an  interview  with  his  C.O. 
and  the  C.O.,  having  satisfied  himself,  in  the  spirit 
of  No.  1360  of  the  King's  Regulations,  that  the  lady 
was  a  virtuous  woman  and  precious  above  rubies, 
duly  notified  the  D.A.G.,  3rd  Echelon,  who  in  turn 
communicated  with  the  Officer  in  charge  of  Records. 
Which  being  done,  the  C.O.  was  dully  informed  that 
there  appeared  to  be  no  just  cause  or  legal  impedi- 
ment in  the  way  of  the  marriage.  And  John  Law- 
rence went  before  an  officer  who  was  a  Commissioner 
of  Oaths  and  made  a  statutory  declaration  to  the 
same  effect.  He  also  produced  a  birth  certificate. 
All  of  which  solemn  declarations  the  C.O.  forwarded 
to  the  Procureur  de  la  Republique  of  the  arrondisse- 
ment  who  thereupon  communicated  with  the  maire 
of  the  commune. 

All  these  things  took  time,  and  Sergeant  Lawrence 
had  to  go  into  the  trenches  again  before  the  marriage 
ceremony  could  be  celebrated  and  Marie  Claire 
spent  many  sleepless  nights  trying  to  dispute  a 
fixed  idea  that  all  the  enemy  batteries  had  got 
John  Lawrence  personally  "registered"  and  were 
laid  on  him.  But  he  came  out  all  right,  and  one 
day  Marie  Claire  and  her  Maman,  with  an  amaz- 
ing retinue  of  relations,  illustrating  all  the  de- 
grees of  affinity,  who  accompanied  them,  met  Ser- 


THE  ALLIES  293 

geants  Lawrence  and  Chipchase  at  the  maison  de 
commune.  Maman  introduced  him  to  a  beau-pere 
who  was  not  beau  and  a  belle-sceur  who  was  not 
belle,  but  he  reflected  that  the  French  are  nothing 
if  not  polite.  It  seemed  extraordinarily  like  a 
lesson  in  French  as  the  step-father  was  a  cordonnier 
and  the  brother-in-law  was  a  charcutier  and  they 
all  got  mixed  up  in  the  most  approved  Ollendorfian 
manner. 

Lawrence  had  obtained  a  certificat  de  coutume 
from  the  consul  at  the  Base  to  the  effect  that 
in  English  law  the  consent  of  the  father  is  not 
necessary  to  the  present  marriage,  and  this  being 
duly  read  by  the  maire  adjoint,  whom  Chipchase 
called  the  adjutant,  Lawrence  again  solemnly  de- 
clared that  there  existed  no  just  cause  or  legal 
impediment. 

Whereupon  the  " contracUint*'  John  Lawrence  in 
English  and  the  " contract  ante"  Marie  Claire  in 
French  declared  their  wish  to  take  one  another  for 
spouse. 

And  the  Adjoint  declared  them  united  in  marriage. 
And  Maman  for  the  first  time  lost  her  smile  and 
wept.  And  all  the  relations  to  the  number  of  two 
score  and  three  wept  likewise  until  Lawrence  felt 
more  than  ever  that  it  was  like  an  inquest.  But 
Marie  Claire's  smile  reassured  him. 

And  the  Adjoint  having  recited  his  entries  in  the 
register  of  the  etat-civil  wrote  down  "Lecture  faite," 
repeating  the  words  like  a  litany,  and  held  out  his 
pen.  Whereupon  John  Lawrence  and  Marie  Claire, 


294  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

his  wife,  and  her  Maman,  and  a  great  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses duly  signed  their  names. 

"You're  married,  right  enough,  Jack,"  said  Chip- 
chase  as  he  took  his  turn  with  the  pen  and  gazed 
at  the  nine  signatures  which  preceded  his  own. 
"It's  like  a  Summary  of  Evidence — you'd  better 
take  the  old  adjutant's  award." 

And  John  Lawrence  gave  his  wife  a  nuptial  kiss 
before  them  all.  Whereupon  Sergeant  Chipchase, 
seizing  the  youngest  and  prettiest  of  Marie  Claire's 
girl  friends,  kissed  her  also,  explaining  that  this  was 
the  "custom"  in  England  and  that  the  validity  of 
the  marriage  might  be  gravely  imperilled  in  English 
law  if  this  ceremony  were  omitted.  This  obiter 
dictum  was  so  well  received  that  he  promptly 
kissed  all  the  others,  thereby  wiping  away  all 
tears  and  putting  everybody  in  the  greatest  good 
humour. 

I  knew  Lawrence  and  was  in  fact  in  France  at  the 
time  of  the  wedding,  but  it  happened  in  1915  and  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  it  till  one  day  last  summer 
when  I  was  spending  a  few  days'  leave  in  Dorset. 
I  had  just  heard  that  he  had  got  a  bar  to  his  D.C.M. 
And  as  chance  would  have  it,  my  walk  over  the  cliffs 
took  me  in  the  late  afternoon  into  a  village  church- 
yard within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  sea,  where  I  sat 
on  the  thick  turf  in  the  shade  of  the  cypresses, 
watching  the  swallows  darting  to  and  fro  in  curves 
of  eight  each  silhouetting  a  fleur-de-lys  against  the 
sky.  And  while  I  mused  in  the  declining  rays  of  the 


THE  ALLIES  295 

sun  my  eye  fell  on  a  tombstone  opposite  me.     I  read 
the  inscription. 


To  the  honoured  memory  of 
SERGEANT  WILLIAM  LAWRENCE 

(of  the  4<Dth  Regiment  Foot) 
Who  after  a  long  and  eventful  life 

In  the  service  of  his  country 
Peacefully  ended  his  days  at  Studland 

November  n,  1869. 
He  served  with  his  distinguished  regiment 

In  the  war  in  South  America  1805 

And  through  the  whole  of  the  Peninsular  War,  1808-13. 

He  received  the  silver  medal  and  no  less  than  10  clasps 

For  the  Battles  in  which  he  was  engaged 

ROLEIA  VIMIERA  TOULOUSE 

^lUDAD  RODRIGO 

BADAJOS 

(In  which  desperate  assault  being  one  of  the  volunteers 
For  the  Forlorn  Hope  he  was  most  grievously  wounded) 

VITTORIA  PYRENEES  NIVELLES 
ORTHES  TOULOUSE 

He  also  fought  at  the  glorious  victory  of 

WATERLOO 

June  18,  1815. 


While  still  serving  with  his  regiment  during  the 

Occupation  of  Paris  by  the  Allied  Armies 

Sergeant  Lawrence  married  Clothilde  Clairet 

at  St.  Germain-en-Laye  who  died  September  26,  1853 

and  was  buried  beneath  this  spot. 


296  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

I  got  up  and  walked  round  to  the  reverse  side  of 
the  tombstone.     On  it  was  inscribed  the  words : 


Ci-gft 

CLOTILDE  LAWRENCE     . 
Nee  at  Saint-Germain-en-Laye  (France) 
Decedee  a  Studland 
le  26  Sept.  1853. 


Was  it  merely  a  coincidence?    I  do  not  know. 


XX 

THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  \ 

UNDENIABLY,  Charteris  had  a  long  nose. 
There  was  no  getting  away  from  the  fact, 
especially  when  you  saw  that  nose  opposite 
you  in  your  dug-out  day  after  day  and  heard  it 
droning  away  night  after  night.  Jefferies  resented 
that  nose.  It  was,  it  is  true,  not  infrequently  con- 
cealed by  a  gas  mask,  but  the  mask  only  seemed  to 
Jefferies  to  accentuate  the  objectionable  feature, 
and  the  gutta-percha,  chisel-shaped  snout  merely 
substituted  a  badger's  nose  for  something  more 
equine.  (Jefferies  forgot  that  he  also  wore  a  mask  at 
times.) 

It  is  surprising  how  prominent  a  feature  in  the 
human  face  even  the  most  unobtrusive  of  noses  may 
become  if  you  consider  it  attentively.  And  Jefferies 
considered  Charteris's  nose  very  often — much  too 
often.  He  also  considered  his  laugh;  most  people 
rather  liked  Charteris's  laugh — Jefferies  had  liked 
it  himself  at  one  time,  though  he  would  have  been 
hotly  contentious  if  you  had  reminded  him  of  this — 
but  Jefferies  now  thought  it  affected  and  almost  as 
obtrusive  as  the  nose.  Jefferies  had  an  idea  that 
when  Charteris  laughed  he  was  laughing  at  him — 
he  could  not  conceive  what  else  there  was  to  laugh 

297 


298  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

about.  After  all,  to  be  planted  down  with  a  R.G.A. 
battery  in  a  mud  emplacement  in  Flanders  for 
months,  with  no  other  outlook  than  the  triangle 
formed  by  your  battery  as  the  apex  and  a  ridge  of 
mud  as  the  base,  is  not  exactly  a  jest.  Gas  shells 
are  very  unpleasant,  especially  when  they  necessitate 
your  wearing  your  respirator  for  fourteen  hours  at  a 
stretch;  watching  a  Taube  hovering  over  you  for  a 
nice  spot  to  drop  its  eggs  on  is  worse;  and  to  wait 
while  the  unseen  battery,  which  you  can't  locate, 
behind  the  ridge  is  ranging  to  get  a  direct  hit  on  you 
is  the  very  devil.  Also,  it  is  very  annoying  to  be 
detailed  to  check  the  reserve  of  ammunition  and 
indent  for  supplies  when  you  never  know  what  per- 
centage between  20  and  75  of  what  you  indent  for 
will  reach  you,  owing  to  the  pack  horses  getting 
knocked  out  on  the  way  up.  In  indenting  for  am- 
munition you  must  always  proceed  on  the  Oriental 
principle  of  asking  for  twice  as  much  as  you  expect 
to  get.  But  this  is  harassing,  and  takes  time  to 
learn. 

Jefferies  could  not  see  that  there  was  anything 
funny  in  all  this.  Besides,  he  had  no  time  to  laugh; 
there  were  so  many  details  to  attend  to.  There  were 
the  duck  boards.  They  formed  a  long  track,  un- 
rolling itself  like  a  strip  of  corrugated  brown  card- 
board from  the  dug-out  to  the  battery,  and  it  was 
very  important  not  to  miss  that  track  at  night. 
One  of  the  bombardiers  had  missed  it;  Jefferies 
identified  his  hand  the  next  morning,  as  it  protruded 
from  the  mud  like  the  root  of  a  tree;  the  man  had 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  299 

always  worn  a  ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left 
hand.  After  that,  JefFeries  found  he  could  not 
traverse  that  duck  board  without  counting  every 
plank  in  it — which  he  did  with  extreme  care,  some- 
times retracing  his  steps  to  make  sure  he  had  not 
missed  one.  When  he  got  to  the  guns  he  would 
count  the  minutes  on  the  dial-sight;  he  could  not 
feel  sure  that  they  were  numbered  right.  He  al- 
ways made  a  point  of  touching  the  doorpost  of  the 
dug-out  when  he  emerged  from  it;  he  would  some- 
times go  back  to  do  it  if  he  was  sure  no  one  was 
watching  him. 

One  night  he  had  a  dream.  He  dreamt  he  was 
standing  in  a  large,  bare  room  without  cap  or  belt, 
with  an  officer  by  his  side,  and  five  other  officers 
seated  at  a  table  facing  him.  And  the  five  officers 
each  rose  and  kissed  a  book  one  after  the  other  and 
promised  to  administer  justice  without  partiality, 
favour,  or  affection,  and  the  senior  officer  then  read 
out  a  document  which  recited  that  he,  George  An- 
thony JefFeries,  was  charged  with  misbehaving  before 
the  enemy  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  cowardice 

in  that  he The  officer  recited  this  through  his 

nose  in  a  curious  droning  way,  and  JefFeries  was 
about  to  object  to  the  constitution  of  the  Court  on 
the  ground  of  the  nasal  intonation  of  the  President, 
when  he  awoke  in  a  cold  sweat  and  realized  that  the 
droning  sound  came  from  the  ground-sheet  opposite 
him  in  the  dug-out.  It  was  Charteris.  After  that 
he  disliked  Charteris's  nose  more  than  ever,  and  he 
also  secretly  found  fault  with  his  lisp — for  Charteris 


300  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

lisped.  He  brooded  over  that  lisp,  and  when  Char- 
teris  said  "Anything  wrong,  old  man?"  he  disliked 
him  all  the  more.  Also  he  made  a  point  of  exposing 
himself  rather  needlessly  when  he  went  forward  to 
the  O.P.,  being  under  the  impression  that  the  men 
were  looking  at  him.  This  went  on  for  some  time, 
until  one  day  the  Major  commanding  the  battery 
sent  for  him,  and  suggested  he  should  take  ten  days' 
leave.  This  convinced  Jefferies  that  the  Major  thought 
he  had  got  the  wind  up,  and  he  refused.  That 
was  a  mistake,  seeing  that  he  had  had  no  leave  for 
eighteen  months. 

One  morning,  Charteris  relieved  him  at  the  O.P. 
They  exchanged  no  words,  Charteiis  having  given 
up  speaking  to  a  man  who  never  answered  him  with 
anything  but  black  looks.  An  hour  later  a  message 
came  down  by  runner — the  telephone  dug-out  had 
been  blown  up — that  Charteris  had  been  killed 
by  a  9.2  shell.  They  buried  him  the  same  day,  and 
the  C.O.  wrote  a  letter  to  his  young  widow,  saying 
how  much  they  would  all  miss  him,  what  a  gallant 
gentleman  he  was,  and  how  his  cheerful,  indomitable 
laugh  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  battery — which 
was  true.  And  Jefferies,  lying  awake  in  his  dug-out, 
suddenly  remembered  that  Charteris  had  once  been 
his  friend  and  that  he  had  been  most  damnably 
rude  to  him.  All  this  his  death  brought  home  to 
him,  and,  as  is  the  way  with  death,  it  made  Charteris 
more  real  than  he  had  ever  been  in  life,  so  that  every 
intonation  of  his  voice,  every  gesture  of  his  hands, 
the  fleeting  smile  that  played  about  his  lips,  sud- 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  301 

denly  acquired  the  vividness  of  a  tableau  vivant. 
Conversations  with  Charteris,  long  forgotten,  were 
now  remembered;  words  which  had  seemed  written 
in  sand  were  now  discovered  to  be  graven  on  marble. 
Jefferies'  memory  had  become  a  monumental  brass, 
and  on  that  brass  was  an  epitaph  of  Charteris. 

One  starlight  night,  about  one  o'clock,  Jefferies 
was  walking  up  to  the  O.P.,  picking  his  way  care- 
fully over  strands  of  rusty  wire.  He  was  glanc- 
ing up  at  the  starry  mist  of  the  Milky  Way  when 
something  seemed  to  snap  suddenly  in  his  head, 
there  was  a  strange  singing  in  his  ears,  he  seemed  to 
be  rushing  through  space,  and  then  everything  was 
blotted  out.  He  found  himself  in  bed,  and,  to  his 
amazement,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  real  bed  with  white 
linen  sheets.  He  put  his  right  hand  above  his  head, 
expecting  to  touch  deal  boarding,  and  was  surprised  to 
encounter  nothing.  His  sense  of  touch  having  failed  to 
controvert  the  evidence  of  his  sense  of  sight,  he  looked 
about  him,  and  saw  other  beds  in  a  row  with  men  lying 
in  them,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  room — for  indubita- 
bly it  was  a  room,  and  remarkably  free  from  mud — was 
a  glass-topped  table  with  swabs  and  nickel  instruments 
upon  it.  He  realized,  at  last,  that  he  was  in  hospital. 

His  first  instinct  was  to  move  his  limbs.  He 
moved  his  right  leg  and  his  right  arm;  then  he  tried 
to  move  his  left  leg  and  his  left  arm — he  had  an  anti- 
cipatory image  of  the  sensorial  consequences,  but 
he  was  conscious  of  no  sensation.  For  the  moment, 
he  had  a  horrible  intuition  that  the  limbs  were  miss- 
ing; then  he  drew  down  the  bed-clothes  with  his  right 


302  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

arm,  and  saw  that  his  left  arm  was  there,  though 
curiously  inert.  He  drew  his  right  foot  up;  it  en- 
countered his  left  leg,  but  the  left  leg  was  insensible 
to  the  encounter.  He  stammered  when  he  spoke. 
He  laughed  often  and  inconsequently;  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  lisped. 

They  evacuated  him  to  England.  A  medical 
history  sheet  accompanied  him.  He  did  not  see  it. 
On  it  were  the  words: 

"Shell  shock.  Left  hemiplegia  and  anesthesia.  Left  visual 
field  contracted.  Reflexes  normal.  Speech  imperfect.  Lisps, 
but  not  known  whether  this  is  congenital" 

The  medical  report  said  nothing  about  insomnia, 
though  Charteris  could  have  enlightened  them  on 
that  point.  He  was  sent  to  a  shell-shock  hospital 
for  treatment  and  observation.  The  functional  dis- 
orders gradually  disappeared  under  electrical  appli- 
cation, and  he  recovered  the  use  of  his  limbs. 
After  that  he  was  given  two  months'  sick  leave  at 
home,  with  orders  to  report  to  a  medical  board  at 
the  end  of  it.  Outwardly,  he  seemed  his  normal 
self,  but  his  mother  noticed  a  curious  introspective 
look  in  his  eyes.  He  lisped  slightly. 

His  people  were  wise  in  their  generation;  they  did 
not  ask  him  questions  about  "the  front."  Instead, 
they  took  him  to  theatres  to  distract  his  thoughts. 
The  experiment  was  singularly  unsuccessful.  They 
sat  in  the  stalls,  but  the  players  always  seemed  to 
him  as  remote  as  if  he  had  sat  in  the  topmost  row 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  303 

of  the  gallery,  and  their  voices  were  an  immense 
distance  away.  So  were  his  own  people,  who  sat 
on  either  side  of  him;  so,  indeed,  was  himself.  When 
he  spoke — which  was  seldom — he  could  hear  his 
own  voice,  always  with  that  lisp,  whispering  ven- 
triloquially  from  the  wings,  the  boxes,  the  dress- 
circle,  everywhere  but  from  himself.  He  had  an 
almost  irrepressible  desire  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of 
an  act  and  walk  out;  at  times  he  nearly  screamed. 
When  he  was  in  the  streets  he  walked  with  feverish 
rapidity,  and  the  sauntering  pace  of  people  in  front 
of  him  infuriated  him  beyond  measure.  He  was 
always  in  a  hurry  to  get  somewhere — he  did  not 
know  where. 

His  mother  had  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  into 
his  room  at  night;  but  he  now  put  her  off,  and  locked 
his  door  with  extreme  care.  He  sat  there  alone,  a 
prey  to  an  increasing  fear  as  one  o'clock  approached, 
starting  at  every  jsound,  and  jumping  up  from  his 
chair.  One  night  the  tyre  of  a  motor  car  in  the 
street  burst  with  a  loud  report.  He  dived  under 
the  bed.  How  long  he  crouched  there  he  did  not 
know,  but  he  remembered  distinctly  the  next  morning 
that  he  had  afterward  thrown  himself  on  his  bed  in 
his  clothes,  determined  not  to  take  them  off,  and 
with  the  light  burning.  He  awoke  in  the  morning 
to  find  himself  between  the  sheets  in  his  sleeping- 
suit  and  the  light  extinguished;  his  clothes  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  After  a  long  search  he  found 
them  neatly  folded  up  in  the  wardrobe.  He  had  a 
bad  headache,  and  he  saw  in  the  mirror  that  his 


3o4  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

face  was  flushed,  his  pupils  dilated,  and  his  tongue 
furred  and  coated.  He  examined  the  door  of  his 
room;  it  was  unlocked.  He  looked  at  the  water- 
bottle;  it  had  been  full  over-night.  It  was  now 
empty. 

At  breakfast,  he  was  silent  and  morose.  He 
stayed  up  in  the  smoking-room  till  after  midnight, 
unable  to  face  the  prospect  of  entering  his  bedroom. 
He  ascended  the  stairs  three  times,  stopped  irreso- 
lutely on  the  landing,  and  then  descended  again. 
The  fourth  time,  by  a  tremendous  effort,  he  entered 
the  room,  and,  as  he  entered  it,  turned  round  and 
locked  the  door  sharply,  feeling  he  was  just  in  time  to 
shut  it  in  the  face  of  someone  who  was  following  him. 
He  looked  at  the  window;  it  was  shut.  He  took  the 
candle,  and,  raising  the  valances,  he  peered  under 
the  bed;  there  was  nothing  there.  He  turned  to 
the  hearth;  a  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate  and  a 
large  arm-chair  stood  in  front  of  it  with  its  back 
toward  him.  He  approached  the  chair — and  sud- 
denly stopped.  There  was  someone  sitting  in  it. 
The  right  arm  of  the  sitter  hung  over  the  right  arm 
of  the  chair;  he  could  not  see  who  it  was,  but  there 
was  something  familiar  about  the  attitude.  Then 
he  saw  that  the  sitter  had  thrown  his  left  leg  over 
the  left  side  of  the  chair — the  leg  terminated  in  a 
muddy  field-boot;  the  figure  seemed  to  be  asleep,  for 
it  never  moved.  He  advanced  irresolutely.  In  the 
chair  sat  Charteris.  Jefferies  stood  rooted  to  the  spot ; 
his  mouth  open,  his  throat  dry,  his  right  leg  quiv- 
ering from  the  hip  downward,  his  hands  clenched, 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  305 

and  his  body  cold  as  ice.  All  the  while  he  could 
hear  the  steady  swing  of  the  pendulum  of  the 
grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  as  though  it  were 
at  his  elbow.  In  a  flash,  he  understood. 

So  it  was  Charteris  who  had  taken  his  clothes  off 
and  hidden  them  in  the  wardrobe  while  he  lay  asleep. 
It  was  Charteris  who  had  doped  him  with  brandy 
and  drunk  the  contents  of  the  water  bottle.  It 
was  Charteris  who  had  unlocked  the  door  every 
night.  But  how  had  he  got  the  key?  And  that 
voice  with  a  lisp  coming  from  a  long  way  off  whenever 
he  spoke — it  must  have  been  Charteris  mocking  him 
as  he  had  so  often  mocked  Charteris.  Who  else 
could  it  be?  He  himself  had  never  had  a  lisp.  Yes! 
Charteris  had  come  to  get  his  own  back.  He  looked 
at  the  shadow  behind  him  on  the  wall,  enormously 
elongated  so  that  the  head  and  shoulders  were 
projected  on  to  the  ceiling;  it  seemed  to  gesticulate  in 
the  flickering  firelight.  Perhaps  that  was  Charteris's 
shadow,  not  his;  he  remembered  that  he  and  Char- 
teris were  about  the  same  height.  He  felt  a  wild 
desire  to  escape  from  that  presence  before  it  awoke. 
He  retreated  toward  the  door,  trying  to  walk  on 
tiptoe,  but  his  left  leg  dragged,  and  he  moved  with 
curious  and  crab-like  movements  from  one  piece 
of  furniture  to  another.  He  kept  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  but  the  figure  never  moved.  His  journey 
seemed  interminably  long;  but  at  last  he  reached 
the  door.  His  only  hope  of  salvation  lay  in  unlocking 
that  door  with  as  little  noise  as  might  be,  opening  it, 
slipping  out,  and  then  closing  it  on  the  sleeper,  and 


306  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

locking  him  in.  But  at  the  moment  he  reached 
the  door,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  he  suddenly  forgot 
where  he  was;  his  mind  became  a  blank.  When 
consciousness  returned,  he  found  himself  still  stand- 
ing by  the  door.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
chair.  It  was  empty.  He  turned  to  the  door; 
it  was  open.  The  sleeper  was  gone,  but  at  any  mo- 
ment he  might  return.  He  slammed  the  door  with 
difficulty;  it  resisted  his  efforts  as  though  there  were 
someone  behind  it.  He  turned  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  with  frantic  haste  seized  the  end  of  a  heavy  chest 
of  drawers  and  tried  to  pull  it  toward  the  door.  His 
breath  came  with  difficulty,  and  in  gasps,  his  heart 
thumped  against  his  ribs,  and  his  brow  was  moist 
with  sweat.  He  got  the  chest  of  drawers  against 
the  door,  exhausting  himself  in  the  effort.  Then  his 
legs  gave  way  under  him,  and  he  fell  senseless  to  the 
floor. 

They  broke  down  the  door  in  the  morning,  and 
found  him  asleep  in  his  clothes  on  the  floor.  There 
was  complete  loss  of  function  in  his  left  arm  and  left 
leg,  and  anaesthesia  on  the  left  side.  The  pupils  of 
his  eyes  seemed  contracted  and  curiously  dark. 
He  was  conscious  and  could  articulate,  but  his  speech 
was  confused  and  the  lisp  was  more  pronounced 
than  before.  At  times  he  laughed  darkly  and  with- 
out mirth. 

In  Harley  Street — that  tragic  rue  des  pas  perdus — 
there  lives  a  physician  famous  as  a  consultant  for  the 
treatment  of  mental  diseases  and  neurasthenia. 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  307 

They  sent  for  him.  He  listened  attentively  to  the 
story  told  him  by  Jefferies's  mother  and  asked  a 
good  many  questions  about  the  patient's  childhood. 
He  seemed  especially  concerned  about  the  lisp — he 
wanted  to  know  whether  it  was  congenital  or  ac- 
quired— and  then,  with  apparent  irrelevance,  he 
asked  if  Jefferies  had  "exalted"  notions.  "Oh,  I 
don't  mean,  'is  he  a  saint?'"  he  added,  seeing  the 
look  of  surprise  on  the  father's  face.  "Far  from  it. 
I  mean,  has  he  what  we  physicians  call  ideas  of 
grandeur;  excessive  conceit,  in  fact  ?  No  ?  So  much 
the  better.  Well,  I'd  better  see  him — alone,  if  you 
please." 

Jefferies  was  on  his  guard.  But  the  doctor  talked 
to  him  about  everything  but  himself — about  horses, 
books,  golf,  especially  golf — until  Jefferies  thought 
him  an  expensive  fraud;  any  fellow  could  talk  that 
kind  of  "tosh,"  especially  if  he  were  paid  so  many 
guineas  an  hour  for  talking  it.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  doctor's  irrelevance  was  deliberate,  and  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  pure  diagnosis,  being  directed 
to  finding  out  whether  the  patient  could  talk  ra- 
tionally about  common  things,  and,  in  particular, 
as  to  whether  some  uncommon  thing  was  lying  am- 
bushed in  his  consciousness  like  a  footpad  waiting 
to  dart  out  in  his  speech.  At  the  end  of  it  all,  he 
put  a  few  questions  about  sleep,  and  the  secretive 
look  came  into  the  patient's  eyes  again.  No!  he 
couldn't  sleep,  he  was  afraid. 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing!" 


3o8  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

Jefferies  was  determined  that  no  one  should  know 
about  Charteris;  they  would  only  laugh  at  him — 
think  him  mad,  perhaps.  That  was  all  very  well 
for  them,  but  who  was  it  unlocked  his  door  from  the 
inside?  That  was  a  facer — such  a  facer  that  he  almost 
yielded  to  a  triumphant  impulse  to  give  it  the  doctor 
like  a  straight  left.  The  doctor  switched  off,  and 
began  to  tell  him  how  he'd  holed  in  three  at  the 
ninth  hole  at  Denham.  What  a  soporific  bore  the 
fellow  was!  What  was  that  he  was  saying?  Look 
at  him;  well,  why  not? 

Jefferies  was  suddenly  conscious  that  the  irises  of 
the  doctor's  eyes  were  brown,  and  his  voice  rather  low 
and  musical — a  good  baritone,  in  fact.  Relax  his 
limbs?  Well,  why  not?  It  was  rather  refreshing 
after  all  this  "gas."  He  obeyed — with  his  right  leg. 
The  doctor  was  holding  up  his  watch  in  his  right 
hand,  and  its  ticking  seemed  enormously  distinct. 
He  heard  him  saying:  "Yes;  yes,  that's  right. 
Now  go — to — sleep;  go — to — sleep;  go — to — sleep." 
The  words  were  carefully  modulated  like  the  swing 
of  a  pendulum.  .  .  . 

"Now!  wake  up!  Yes,  wake  up.  That's  right. 
I've  just  been  inducing  a  little  sleep.  You'll  feel 
all  the  better  for  it.  I'll  come  and  see  you  to- 


morrow." 


The  doctor  took  his  departure.  He  had  already 
discovered  a  great  deal.  Jefferies  did  not  know  that 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  been  talking  freely 
to  him  about  Charteris,  and  how  he  unlocked  the 
door  of  his  room  and  doped  him  in  his  sleep,  and 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  309 

what  a  beast  he,  Jefferies,  had  been  to  him,  and  how 
he'd  only  got  what  he  deserved,  seeing  that  if  he'd 
been  at  the  O.  P.  Charteris  wouldn't  have  been  there, 
and  would  never  have  been  knocked  out,  and  it  all 
came  of  his  not  counting  the  planks  in  the  duck 
board.  Also  he  was  quite  unaware  that  he  had  lifted 
his  left  arm  and  crossed  his  left  leg  over  the  right, 
and,  stranger  still,  that  during  that  quarter  of  an 
hour's  unconsciousness  he  had  been  speaking  without 
a  lisp. 

That  night,  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  suddenly 
fell  fast  asleep.  He  awoke  with  the  sun  streaming 
into  the  room,  and  was  astonished  that  he  could 
recall  no  apprehension  preceding  sleep.  The  door, 
too,  was  still  locked,  his  head  was  clear  and  his 
tongue  clean.  He  said  as  much  to  the  doctor  later 
in  the  day.  He  was  beginning  to  think  the  latter 
rather  a  decent  sort.  He  felt  half  inclined  to  tell  him 
all  about  Charteris. 

"Was  it  about  eleven  o'clock  you  fell  asleep?" 
said  the  doctor. 

"Yes,"  said  Jefferies,  and  wondered  how  the  doctor 
had  hit  upon  the  exact  time.  But  Jefferies  had  never 
heard  of  post-hypnotic  suggestion. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  was  a  different  man. 
The  sleeplessness  had  wholly  disappeared,  so  had 
the  motor  symptoms,  and  the  lisp  with  them.  The 
doctor  assured  him  that  he  would  stake  his  pro- 
fessional reputation  on  his  being  his  old  self  within 
an  appreciable  time,  and  such  assurance  is  infectious. 
Jefferies  did  not  know  that  the  doctor  had  been 


3io  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

studying  with  considerable  satisfaction  that  morning 
the  laboratory  report  of  a  pathologist  on  his  blood 
serum.  It  read: 

"  Results  of  Wassermann  test:     Blood  — negative. 

Cerebro-spinal  fluid — negative." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself.  "  Nega- 
tive results  are  not  conclusive,  but  in  this  case  they 
corroborate.  I  knew  that  young  man  had  led  a 
clean  life.  But  I  didn't  like  that  lisp  at  first — it 
might  have  been  incipient  G.  P.  I." 

He  never  had  mentioned  the  name  of  Charteris  to 
Jefferies,  but  one  day  he  asked  him  if  he  had  ever 
known  a  man  of  that  name. 

"Yes,"  said  Jefferies,  without  a  trace  of  self- 
consciousness.  "A  topping  fellow.  One  of  the 
best."  And  he  talked  freely  about  him,  though  not 
quite  so  freely  as  when  he  had  talked  on  without 
knowing  it.  Had  he  any  people?  Well,  yes,  he  had 
left  a  widow  and  a  baby — six  months  old,  he  believed. 
Jefferies  suddenly  felt  rather  ashamed  he  had  not 
looked  her  up;  he  had  been  best  man  at  the  wedding. 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  her?"  said  the  doctor, 
suddenly.  "Yes,  I  mean  it.  Go  and  cheer  her  up. 
It's  your  duty.  Yes,  and  it's  to  your  interest. 
Think  of  others — it's  not  a  bad  recreation.  You've 
been  thinking  too  much  about  yourself.  Don't 
seek  sympathy — give  it.  Sympathy  is  very  bad  for 
you.  I've  never  given  you  any" — which  was  both 
true  and  untrue. 

He  went.  He  found  her  in  a  tiny  flat  in  West 
Kensington;  the  pension  of  the  widow  of  a  second- 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  311 

lieutenant  is  not  opulent,  and  she  had  little  else. 
She  was  in  black,  and  the  long  oval  face  with  its 
grave  gray  eyes,  clear  complexion,  and  masses  of 
fair  hair,  had  the  charm  of  a  Gainsborough  portrait. 

"Oh,  I  knew  you'd  come,"  she  said  in  all  sincerity. 
She  took  him  to  see  the  baby.  It  was  very  like 
Charteris — even  the  nose,  and  yet  the  nose  seemed 
quite  normal.  Only  he  had  never  seen  Charteris 
put  his  toes  in  his  mouth. 

He  looked  down  at  the  baby  and  the  baby  looked 
up  at  him.  He  put  out  his  forefinger,  having  a 
vague  feeling  that  the  correct  thing  to  do  was  to 
stroke  them  like  a  pup;  four  small  fingers  and  a 
thumb  closed  upon  it.  The  clasp  of  those  little 
fingers  affected  him  strangely;  he  felt  as  though  their 
impulse  came  from  beyond  the  grave.  He  looked 
round  at  the  tiny  nursery,  neat  and  clean  as  an 
operating  theatre;  but  the  flat  was  cheaply  furnished, 
and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  life  must  be 
rather  hard  for  her. 

"I  want  you  to  be  his  godfather,"  said  the  mother 
softly.  "You  were  his  father's  best  friend." 

She  was  chastising  him  with  whips,  though  she  did 
not  know  it.  He  turned  to  the  window  with  a  gulp 
in  his  throat,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

"No;  I  was  a  beast  to  him,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that!  It  isn't  true.  He 
always  said  in  his  letters  that  you  were  'such  a  good 
chap/  and  did  not  know  what  fear  was." 

"Was  that  all  he  said?"  he  asked,  with  his  face 
still  averted. 


GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"All !  I  think  he  once  wrote  that  you  seemed  rather 
worried  about  something,  and  that  you  wouldn't  tell 
him  what  it  was.  Oh!  yes,  and  that  he  thought  he 
must  have  offended  you  without  knowing  it.  Only 
that.  Oh,  do  promise!  He's  so  small,  you  know." 

He  turned  round.  Undeniably  he  was  small; 
it  was  very  odd  how  small  babies  were.  And  the 
baby  was  looking  up  at  him — looking  at  him  with 
the  unwinking  stare  of  infancy.  He  was  horribly 
afraid  it  was  going  to  say:  "Well,  old  thing,  what 
have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

He  suddenly  seized  both  her  hands  in  his.  "I 
promise,"  he  said. 

He  stooped  over  the  cot,  and  the  baby  made  a 
grab  at  his  finger,  missed  it,  grabbed  again,  and  this 
time  caught  it  firmly.  At  that  she  laughed.  And 
he  laughed.  And  the  baby,  who  mimicked  every- 
body he  saw,  like  a  variety  artist,  laughed  also, 
whereat  they  laughed  the  more. 

Jefferies  did  not  quite  know  what  the  official 
duties  of  a  godfather  were,  but  he  did  his  best.  He 
bought  hideous  golliwogs,  hirsute  bears,  volatile 
monkeys,  and  a  "Child's  History  of  England," 
having  the  vaguest  ideas  of  the  mental  attainments 
of  an  infant  in  arms.  Most  of  these  the  baby 
accepted  with  a  regal  air  as  though  receiving  the 
adoration  of  the  Magi,  and  then  threw  them  on  the 
ground.  He  screamed  lustily  till  Jefferies  picked 
them  up,  whereupon  he  threw  them  down  again. 
Jefferies  again  picked  them  up.  The  strange  thing 
was  that  he  enjoyed  this  almost  as  much  as  the  baby. 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  313 

Jefferies  impounded  a  friend  as  second  sponsor, 
and  one  Sunday  they  attended  with  a  very  youthful 
godmother  at  the  font  to  be  sworn  in.  The  whole 
ceremony  seemed  to  Jefferies  extraordinarily  like 
going  bail  that  the  baby  would  come  up  for  judgment 
if  called  upon.  He  had  to  promise  as  "surety"  for 
the  infant,  for  the  remission  of  whose  sins  the  parson 
had  already  prayed  with  great  unction,  that  he  would 
renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  the  vain  pomp 
and  glory  of  the  world,  and  all  covetous  desires  of 
the  same — which  seemed  to  Jefferies  rather  gratui- 
tous and  uncommonly  like  an  innuendo.  After 
which  he  had  to  give  a  solemn  undertaking  that  he 
would  call  upon  his  godson  "to  hear  sermons"  (he 
registered  a  mental  reservation  as  to  this)  and  to 
learn  various  holy  injunctions  "in  the  vulgar 
tongue."  And,  being  thus  bound  over,  and  having 
a  vague  feeling  that  his  recognisances  would  be 
estreated  if  he  failed  to  produce  his  godson  whenever 
the  parson  wanted  a  "deadhead"  for  a  matinee 
sermon,  he  left  the  church  with  the  mother  and  the 
baby,  who  uttered  vigorous  but  unintelligible  com- 
ments on  the  whole  performance  in  a  very  vulgar 
tongue,  whereat  the  church  cleaners — aged  females, 
whom  Jefferies  called  "the  moppers-up" — said  to 
one  another:  "My!  ain't  the  biby  a  picture;  the 
little  dear." 

"Well!  what  does  the  Board  say?"  said  the  doctor 
to  Jefferies,  one  morning  in  his  consulting-room,  a 
few  weeks  later. 


3i4  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

"They've  reported  me  fit  for  light  duty,  sir.  I 
expect  to  go  out  again  in  a  month.  But  I'm  really 
quite  fit  for  general  service,  as  it  is." 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  the  doctor.  "You're 
a  different  man,  I  can  see  that.  I  see  you've  got  the 
Military  Cross.  I  congratulate  you.  I  met  the 
C.  O.  of  your  battery  the  other  day;  he  says  you 
thoroughly  deserved  it.  Cold  feet?  Nonsense!  I'll 
admit  you  were  afraid,  but  not  with  that  kind  of 
fear.  Your  trouble  was  that  you  were  afraid  of 
being  afraid.  That's  not  the  stuff  that  cowards 
are  made  of — 'undue  regard  for  his  personal  safety,' 
as  they  call  it  in  the  Army.  Your  fear  was  moral 
fear,  not  physical.  A  physical  coward's  never  afraid 
of  being  afraid;  what  he  fears  is  being  courageous.  I 
have  yet  to  meet  the  man  who  knows  no  form  of  fear; 
he  must  be  either  a  beast  or  a  god.  After  all,  fear 
is  the  oldest  of  the  emotions.  What  is  it  the  Latin 
poet  says?  Primus  in  orbe  deos  fecit  timor.  All 
religions  begin  in  fear.  A  man  who  fears  nothing 
will  neither  fear  God  nor  regard  man.  I've  called 
your  fear  moral,  and  so  it  was;  some  might  call  it 
psychical,  and  so  it  may  have  been.  The  shock  of 
the  actual  shell  that  knocked  you  out  was  merely 
the  medium  of  a  psychical  explosion  of  a  growing 
fear  of  being  afraid. 

"Blame  you?  My  dear  fellow,  who  am  I  that 
I  should  blame  you?  I've  not  looked  death  in  the 
face  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  and  seen  my 
friends  obliterated  one  after  the  other.  ...  If 
you'd  remained  insensible  to  all  that — well,  you'd 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  315 

V 

deserve  to  be  shot — not  for  cowardice,  but  for  callous- 
ness. We're  beginning  to  learn.  So  is  the  Army. 
Why  do  you  suppose  that  we've  been  asked  to  supply 
a  neurologist  to  every  army  corps  at  the  front? 
Why,  to  give  every  poor  devil  who  finds  himself 
charged  with  desertion  or  cowardice  a  sporting 
chance.  There  is  a  certain  G.O.C.  I  know — never 
mind  his  name — who,  before  he  relinquished  his 
command  in  the  field,  always  made  it  a  rule  never  to 
confirm  a  death  sentence  if  the  man's  medical  history- 
sheet  recorded  a  wound.  Why?  Because  he  said 
a  man  was  never  the  same  afterward  or,  what 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,  that  you  could  never  be 
sure  he  was.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  him.  In  laying 
down  that  principle,  he  won  an  even  greater  military 
victory  than  in  winning  the  first  battle  of  Ypres. 
Ah!  I've  told  you  who  he  is  now — but  no  matter. 

"You  want  to  know  about  your  own  case?  Well, 
there's  no  harm  in  telling  you  now.  I  knew  you 
were  afraid  of  something,  and  my  first  task  was  to 
investigate  the  history  of  the  fear.  I  did — never 
mind  how.  Your  fear  recurred  toward  midnight — 
the  time  when  you  were  knocked  out.  It  was  a  case 
of  traumatic  revival.  The  lisp?  Oh!  that's  easily 
explained.  Neuro-mimesis — the  unconscious  imita- 
tion of  another  person  to  whom  one  is  attached — 
is  quite  common  in  cases  of  shell  shock.  Then  you 
had  that  hallucination  about  Charteris  sitting  in  the 
chair.  No!  there's  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about  in 
that.  Most  people  have  an  hallucination  once  or 
twice  in  their  life;  the  danger  is  when  they  don't 


316  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

recognize  it  as  such.  You  didn't,  and  you  were  so 
obsessed  by  remorse  for  your  behaviour  about  Char- 
teris — oh,  yes!  you  told  me  all  that — that  when  you 
'saw'  that  irrational  apparition  you  began  to  ration- 
alize it.  That  was  the  crisis.  It's  when  a  patient 
begins  to  rationalize  the  irrational  that  the  signal's 
at  danger.  You  see,  once  grant  the  major  premise 
of  a  delusion,  once  accept  it  as  a  reality,  and  all  the 
rest  can  be  made  to  follow  logically — oh,  perfectly 
logically.  The  logic  of  the  mentally  afflicted  is  the 
most  irrefutable  of  reasoning.  There's  never  a  flaw 
in  it.  ...  That's  what  makes  it  so  deadly." 

"Yes,"  said  Jefferies.  "I  see  that.  But  who  was 
it  unlocked  my  door  and  undressed  me?" 

"Yourself.  Your  other  self,  if  you  like.  You 
were  in  a  condition  of  somnambulism.  It  was  your 
subconscious  self  that  unlocked  the  door  and  went 
downstairs  to  the  brandy  decanter.  Yes!  I  asked 
your  father  if  he'd  noticed  a  difference  in  the  load- 
line;  he  had.  He  suspected  the  butler,  and  his  sus- 
picions were  confirmed  by  the  butler's  talking  about 
ghosts.  Ghosts  don't  drink  brandy,  though  I 
believe  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  says  they  drink  synthetic 
whisky.  I  hope  they  don't  take  it  on  an  empty 
stomach.  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  interested  in 
haunted  houses  or  tables  that  do  the  tango;  I'm 
only  interested  in  haunted  men." 

"Yes,  sir;  but  what  do  you  mean  by  my  other  self? 
You  speak  as  if  a  man  had  two  selves." 

"Of  course  I  do.  It's  the  first  thing  that  every 
student  of  psychology  learns;  and  a  doctor's  very 


'THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  317 

little  good  if  he's  not  something  of  a  psychologist. 
Look  at  me;  I'm  copying  out  a  long  prescription, 
and  I'm  talking  to  you  all  the  time.  My  subcon- 
scious self  is  doing  the  one,  my  conscious  self  is 
doing  the  other.  But  my  two  selves  are  on  speaking 
terms,  whereas  in  hysteria  and  masked  epilepsy  the 
two  selves  may  be  total  strangers  to  each  other. 
Have  you  never  read  'Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde'? 
We've  all  got  a  Mr.  Hyde  in  us.  The  great  thing  is 
to  know  it,  and  keep  him  under  lock  and  key;  he's 
always  trying  to  steal  the  key  and  dope  Dr.  Jekyll. 
Why,  I've  known  a  case  in  the  Salpetriere  clinic 
where  a  doctor  put  a  woman  in  a  trance  and  raised 
a  somnambulic  self  in  her  that  had  been  'dead' 
twenty  years — and  a  very  ugly  self  it  was.  Your 
secondary  self  got  the  upper  hand  and  robbed  the 
primary  self  of  its  functions.  I  made  it  give  them 
up.  Have  you  never  seen  a  lady  patient  under  an 
anaesthetic?  No,  of  course  not;  most  improper. 
But  I  have.  They  all  swear  like  troopers — every 
one  of  them.  Where  do  they  acquire  the  vocabu- 
lary? They  don't — not  consciously;  but  their  sub- 
conscious memory  does.  They  hear  foul  language 
in  the  street  like  everybody  else,  and  their  subcon- 
scious memory  registers  it.  Switch  off  the  will, 
side-track  the  conscious  self,  and  the  subconscious 
self — 'the  self  below  the  threshold,'  someone  has 
called  it — surges  up;  and  a  very  ugly  monster  it 
sometimes  is — sleeping  lecheries,  lurking  fears,  dark 
'throw-backs,'  all  the  primeval  self  that  each  of 
us  carries  within  us.  The  Beast  in  the  Jungle,  in 


3i8  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

fact.     But  he  has  a  keeper,  and  men  call  him  The 
Will." 

"I  should  rather  like  your  profession,"  said  Jef- 
feries,  musingly. 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  It's  all  very  well  to  study 
it  as  a  hobby,  to  read  Janet  and  Ribot — how  de- 
lightfully those  French  fellows  do  write — it's  another 
thing  to  study  it  clinically.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  Sun- 
day round  of  golf — ah!  I  bored  you  with  that, 
didn't  I?"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  smile  as  he  looked 
at  his  watch. 

Jefferies  rose,  and  took  his  cap  and  stick, 

"Sir,  I  can  n-never  thank  you  enough  for  what 
you've  done  for  me,"  he  said  fervently. 

"Don't  thank  me,  my  dear  fellow.  I  regarded 
you  as  my  colleague — not  merely  as  my  patient. 
You  learnt  to  forget  yourself;  you  'called  up*  your 
will.  Without  that  reinforcement,  I  should  not 
have  succeeded.  How's  the  godson?  And  Mrs. 
Charteris?  No,  no.  No  more  thanks,  please. 
Listen  to  me — the  words  are  not  mine;  they  were 
uttered  two  thousand  years  ago  by  the  greatest  of 
physicians.  'Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole. 
Go  in  peace.'  Good-bye.  God  bless  you." 


EPILOGUE 

THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER 

"What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away  ?  " 

"  Every  soldier,  when  not  prevented  by  military  duty,  will 
attend  divine  service" — THE  KING'S  REGULATIONS. 

I  HAVE  read  somewhere  of  late  statements  by 
two  Army  chaplains — one,  I  think,  a  Wesleyan, 
the  other  an  Anglican — to  the  effect  that  the 
ministrations  of  their  Churches  had  failed  to  "reach" 
the  soldier.  Whether  this  confession  of  failure  was 
a  reproach,  and,  if  a  reproach,  whether  it  was  di- 
rected against  Church  or  against  Army,  I  do  not 
know.  But  the  conclusion  itself  is  indisputable. 
Yet  the  Churches  have  not  wanted  for  advantages. 
Their  chaplains  have  been  given  commissioned  rank 
and  a  spiritual  hierarchy  is  recognized  under  military 
forms.  The  soldier  is  classified  according  to  his 
religious  profession,  and  once  his  election  is  made, 
the  secular  arm  is  called  in  to  punish  him  if  he  is 
late  on  Church  Parade  or  neglects  to  "follow  the 
drum."  A  prayer-book  figures  in  the  inventory  of 
his  kit,  and  to  be  without  it  is  to  be  "deficient  in 
necessaries."  His  religion  is  stamped  on  his  identity- 
disc,  and  is  recorded  in  the  nominal  roll  of  his  company 
returns,  with  his  name,  his  number,  and  his  rank. 

319 


320  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

With  all  these  facilities  for  access  to  him  the 
Churches,  according  to  lists  from  officers,  have  failed 
to  "reach"  him.  In  an  earlier  age — when,  as  on  a 
wet  and  gusty  morning  at  Agincourt,  the  priests 
shrived  the  archers  and  men-at-arms  as  they  formed 
up  in  order  of  battle — such  an  admission  would  have 
meant  not  that  the  Church  had  failed,  but  that  the 
Army  was  damned.  But  in  those  days  men  were 
more  exercised  with  the  problem  of  how  to  die  than 
with  the  question  of  how  to  live.  To-day  if  a  man 
has  solved  for  himself  the  latter,  he  may  well  be 
excused  if  he  ceases  to  trouble  himself  about  the 
former.  And  in  that  sense  the  soldier  has  a  faith  and 
by  that  faith  he  is  justified. 

This  may  seem  to  some  a  hard  saying.  The  soldier 
is  sometimes  ribald,  often  profane,  and  always  ironi- 
cal. He  does  not  sing  hymns  on  going  into  action 
like  Cromwell's  Ironsides  or  accompany  reveille  with 
a  morning  psalm.  He  has  been  known  to  put  the 
tune  of  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers"  to  base  uses. 
The  name  of  Christ  is  often  on  his  lips,  but  as  an 
imprecation  rather  than  a  prayer.  He  will  make  a 
jest  of  a  "white  cross"  as  though  it  were  a  new 
Army  decoration.  The  language  in  which  he 
speaks  of  death  is,  in  fact,  often  picturesque,  but 
it  is  rarely  devout.  A  pal  may  have  "gone 
West"  or  "stopped  one"  or  been  "outed";  he 
is  never  spoken  of  as  being  "with  God."  Death 
is  rarely  alluded  to  as  being  the  will  of  God;  it  is 
frequently  characterized  in  terms  of  luck.  A  sol- 
dier on  going  into  action  is  much  more  exercised 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  321 

about  the  condition  of  his  rifle  than  the  state  of  his 
soul. 

There  are,  of  course,  exceptions,  but  the  average 
soldier  does  not  seem  to  feel  any  confidence  that  he  is 
in  the  hands  of  a  Divine  Providence;  he  is  fatalistic 
rather  than  religious.  After  all,  if  you  have  looked 
on  the  obscene  havoc  of  a  battlefield,  as  the  writer 
has  done,  and  seen  the  entrails  of  men  torn  out,  their 
heads  severed  from  their  bodies,  and  all  the  profane 
dismemberment  of  that  which,  according  to  the  teach- 
ing of  the  Church,  is  the  temple  of  the  soul,  you  find  it 
rather  difficult  at  times  to  believe  that  the  fate  of 
the  individual,  whatever  may  be  the  case  with  the 
type,  is  of  any  concern  to  the  Creator.  For  the  sol- 
dier who  ponders  on  the  realities  of  war,  the  judg- 
ments of  God  may  be  a  great  deep;  what  he  feels  to 
be  certain  is  that  they  are  past  finding  out. 

As  to  whether  this  agnosticism  is  real  or  assumed, 
transient  or  permanent,  the  writer  offers  no  opinion. 
But  he  will  hazard  the  conjecture  that  it  is  not  with- 
out its  sublimity.  To  go  into  action  with  a  con- 
viction that  your  cause  is  everything  and  yourself 
nothing,  to  face  death  without  any  assurance  that 
in  dying  you  achieve  your  own  salvation,  whether  vic- 
torious or  not,  is  surely  a  nobler  state  of  mind  than 
that  of  the  old  Protestant  and  Catholic  armies  in 
the  "Wars  of  Religion,"  equally  assured  of  their  own 
personal  salvation  and  of  the  damnation  of  their 
opponents.  The  religious  soldier  of  history  may 
have  been  devout,  he  was  certainly  fanatical.  And 
as  he  was  fanatical,  so  he  was  cruel.  Regarding 


322  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

himself  as  the  chosen  instrument  of  God,  he  assumed 
he  did  but  anticipate  the  Divine  Judgment — and 
incidentally  ensure  his  own  salvation — by  giving  no 
quarter  to  the  papist  or  the  infidel."  The  morning 
psalm  ended  in  the  evening  massacre. 

The  English  soldier  is  not  cruel;  though  he  can, 
and  does,  take  a  terrible  revenge  for  treachery.  He 
certainly  despises  Fritz  but  he  rarely  hates  him.  He 
believes  in  "getting  his  own  back"  but  he  does  not 
give  himself  religious  airs  about  it.  His  view  of 
death  may  be  light,  but,  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  morbid, 
neither  is  it  egotistical.  I  am  no  theologian,  but  it 
has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  religion  of  the  Eng- 
ish  Churches,  with  its  profoundly  Calvinistic  colour- 
ing, has  always  been  inclined  to  a  certain  egotism  in 
its  emphasis  on  personal  salvation  and  its  attainment 
exclusively  by  admission  to  the  congregation  of  the 
elect,  whether  by  baptism,  confirmation,  or  profes- 
sion. The  literature  of  English  religion,  especially 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  is  full  of  an  extraordinary 
preoccupation,  sometimes  a  morbid  preoccupation, 
with  the  state  of  the  individual  soul  and  a  frantic 
desire  to  escape  a  damnation  which  was  regarded  as 
the  common  lot  of  men.  "Save  yourself"  was  its 
burden,  and  the  official  professors  of  religion  exhorted 
others  to  join  them  in  a  kind  of  spiritual  sauve  qui 
pent.  "Save  others"  is  the  creed  of  the  soldier: 
all  his  military  education  is  directed  toward  making 
him  forget  himself.  He  has,  indeed,  no  time  to  think 
of  himself;  all  his  time  is  given  to  thinking  of  others — 
to  "doing  his  bit,"  to  holding  a  line  of  trench,  keeping 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  323 

up  a  covering  fire,  getting  up  rations,  delivering  his 
"chit,"  for  fear  that  otherwise  someone  else  will  be 
"let  down."  Self-effacement  and  not  self-assertion 
is  the  rule  of  life  in  the  Army. 

It  was  well  said  by  De  Vigny  that  the  virtue 
which  characterizes  the  good  soldier  is  abnegation, 
and  that  his  is  a  cross  more  heavy  than  that  of  the 
martyr:  and  one  which  must  be  borne  a  long  time  in 
order  to  know  the  grandeur  and  the  weight  of  it. 
The  renunciation  of  the  pursuit  of  gain,  the  surrender 
of  one's  liberty  of  thought  and  action,  the  acceptance 
of  the  duty  of  implicit  obedience,  the  certainty  of 
punishment  in  the  case  of  failure,  the  uncertainty 
of  reward  in  the  event  of  success,  the  contraction  of 
ambition,  the  repression  of  emotion — these,  indeed, 
are  great  abnegations.  They  might,  perhaps,  seem, 
like  the  vows  of  the  early  religious  orders,  more 
calculated  to  cramp  the  character  than  to  develop 
it,  were  it  not  that  the  soldier,  unlike  the  monk,  lives 
a  life  of  action,  not  of  meditation:  that  this  long 
abnegation  has  for  its  object,  however  remote,  some 
definite  achievement  and  that  it  carries  with  it,  in 
the  case  of  our  own  nation,  no  imputed  righteousness 
and  few  or  no  prerogatives. 

Except  in  rare  moments  the  British  nation  has 
never  "spoilt"  the  British  Army,  still  less  has  it 
glorified  it,  and  the  disabilities  of  the  soldier  have 
been  far  more  obvious  than  his  privileges.  Pacifist 
writers  may  fulminate  about  militarism,  but  there 
never  was  a  less  "militaristic"  army  than  the  old 
British  Army:  and  if  ever  there  was  a  job  that  the 


324  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

British  officer  hated,  it  was  being  called  in  to  "aid 
the  civil  power."  He  knew  it  would  never  bring  him 
any  credit,  while  it  might  often  involve  him  in  irre- 
trievable disaster.  If  he  took  counsel  of  the  King's 
Regulations,  the  only  thing  he  found  was  that  what- 
ever he  did  was  almost  certain  to  be  wrong.  His 
military  character  invested  him  with  no  sanctity,  but 
it  often  exposed  him  to  much  obloquy.  The  soldier 
took  his  oath  of  attestation,  and  the  officer  accepted 
his  commission  knowing  full  well  that  he  sacrificed 
far  more  than  he  gained.  He  joined  a  great  frater- 
nity, but  he  did  not  become  a  member  of  a  caste. 
He  accepted  these  sacrifices  as  incidental  to  his 
choice  and  in  that  act  of  voluntary  abnegation  he 
consecrated  them. 

It  is  this  spirit  of  sacrifice  which  animates  the 
soldier  of  to-day.  For  this  army  had  that  character 
stamped  upon  it  in  the  first  two  years  of  the  war  and 
it  has  never  lost  it.  Never  in  any  country  in  the 
world  had  there  been  anything  like  that  great 
crusading  rush  to  the  colours:  and  by  the  time  the 
rush  had  begun  to  spend  itself  the  character  of  the 
New  Army  was  fixed  for  all  time.  If  ever  men  dedi- 
cated themselves  to  a  cause  these  were  they.  Long- 
service  N.C.O.  instructors  were  astonished  at  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  the  men  learnt  their  duties, 
often  learning  more  in  the  new  fourteen  weeks'  inten- 
sive training  than  the  men  had  learnt  in  a  year  in 
the  days  of  the  old  Army. 

The  abnegations  of  a  military  life  may  make 
a  man  or  they  may  mar  him;  it  all  depends  on  the 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  325 

spirit  in  which  they  are  accepted.  If  the  original 
impulse  is  compulsory,  as  in  Germany,  they  will 
enslave  him;  if  it  is  voluntary,  as  in  England,  they 
will  exalt  him.  The  British  soldier  has  learnt  how  to 
extract  the  best  out  of  military  life — to  see  that,  if 
rightly  regarded,  it  offers  every  day  such  opportuni- 
ties for  voluntary  sacrifice  as  are  to  be  found  no- 
where else;  you  have  only  to  read  the  awards  in  the 
Gazette  to  find  the  proof  of  it,  and  when  you  read  them 
remember  that  for  one  deed  that  stands  rewarded  a 
thousand  go  unrecorded. 

Every  nation  gets  the  army  it  deserves,  and  in  the 
British  Army,  as  in  no  other,  one  seems  to  find  the 
solution  of  the  problem  which  has  so  often  per- 
plexed philosophers — how  to  reconcile  liberty  with 
authority.  The  spirit  was  always  there,  for  it  was 
native  to  the  English  character.  There  never  was 
any  army  in  which  respect  for  the  individual  was  so 
strong.  It  was  always  bad  form  for  an  officer  to 
punish  a  man  "with  his  tongue" — it  was  enough 
for  him  to  say  "Will  you  take  my  award?" — and  it 
was  absolutely  fatal  to  his  career  for  him  to  lay  his 
hands  upon  him.  The  very  first  thing  a  subaltern 
learnt  when  he  did  his  day's  duty  as  orderly  officer 
was  that  his  first  thought  must  be  the  comfort  of  the 
men:  and  an  Army  Order  reminds  him,  if  he  is  in 
danger  of  forgetting  it,  that  he  must  put  it  before 
his  own.  The  recruit  is  quick  to  discover  this  and 
perhaps  not  more  quick  than  surprised.  Also  he  dis- 
covers that  he  himself  is  "his  brother's  keeper." 
He  learns  that  everything  he  does  or  does  not  do 


326  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

involves  others  besides  himself.  This  is  a  war  of 
platoons,  and  the  "specialists,"  bombers,  rifle- 
bombers,  Lewis  gunners,  learn  to  work  together 
and  with  the  riflemen,  like  the  forwards  in  a 
football  team  who  "feed"  each  other  with  the 
ball. 

It  is  the  same  with  discipline  as  with  tactics — 
the  man  who  goes  "ca  canny"  or  defaults  soon 
discovers  that  others  have  to  suffer  for  his  derelic- 
tion as  well  as  himself,  and  if  a  corporal  neglects  to 
see  that  the  rifles  of  his  section  are  clean  at  a  com- 
pany inspection,  he  may  be  the  first  to  hear  of  it, 
but  assuredly  he  will  not  be  the  Itfst,  for  the 
platoon  sergeant  and  the  platoon  commander  will 
hear  of  it,  too,  and  all  of  them  "get  it  in  the 
neck."  In  the  Army  the  fact  that  you  expiate  your 
fault  does  not  mean  that  others  may  not  have  to 
atone  for  it. 

In  an  army  thus  constituted,  a  soldier  finds  a  rule 
of  life  and  a  theory  of  conduct.  It  is  not  in  itself  a 
religion,  though  it  may  easily  become  one  if  he  is 
inspired  by  an  ideal  in  submitting  himself  to  it. 
It  bears  the  same  relation  to  that  ideal  as  dogma 
does  to  faith.  One  may  have  the  dogma  without  the 
faith;  one  may  be  disciplined  merely  because  one  is 
docile.  But  the  acceptance  of  a  dogma  sometimes 
generates  a  faith,  and  the  soldier  who  joined  the 
Old  Army  merely  because  he  liked  it,  and  strove  to 
keep  his  conduct-sheet  clean  because  he  knew  that  a 
"dirty"  one  obscured  his  chances  of  promotion, 
was  in  the  process  of  becoming  a  good  soldier,  well 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  327 

on  the  way  to  becoming  a  good  man.  To  tell  a 
falsehood  is  a  military  offence;  in  learning  to  avoid 
it  he  was  in  a  fair  way  of  discovering  it  was  a  moral 
offence.  There  are,  it  is  true,  military  offences 
which  are  not  moral  offence,  and  there  are  moral 
offences  which  are  not  military  offences.  But, 
generally  speaking,  in  the  Old  Army  a  bad  man  made 
a  bad  soldier,  and  a  good  man  a  good  soldier.  In 
the  New  Army  most  of  the  recruits  had  a  faith  before 
they  learnt  the  dogma.  Many  of  them  joined  for 
the  sake  of  a  "cause,"  all  for  the  sake  of  an  emotion, 
but  it  was  an  emotion — whether  patriotism,  pride, 
emulation,  or  love  of  adventure — which  had  little  or 
none  of  the  impurity  of  ambition.  Most  of  them 
accepted  the  discipline  without  any  great  enthu- 
siasm for  it,  and  probably  with  some  aversion  from 
it  as  a  thing  foreign  to  their  civilian  habit  of  mind, 
and  were  surprised  to  find  that  it  had  a  meaning  and 
even  embodied  a  theory  of  conduct.  In  their  impulse 
to  join  there  was  an  emotion;  in  the  discipline  to 
which  they  subjected  themselves  there  was  a  mo- 
rality. And  if  it  be  true,  as  someone  has  said,  that 
religion  is  morality  touched  with  emotion,  then  these 
men  were  assuredly  religious. 

t  How  far  the  introduction  of  conscription  altered 
this  character,  and  whether,  indeed,  conscription 
as  a  permanent  system  was  compatible  with  it  I 
am  not  concerned  to  discuss.  But  as  regards  the 
British  Army  during  the  years  of  1914-1916,  and 
more  particularly  the  Old  Army  which  leavened  it, 
it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  by  their  works  ye  shall  know 


328  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

them.  Kitchener  never  wrote  anything  finer  than 
the  allocution  which  he  addressed  to  the  old  B.E.F. 
when  they  landed  in  France.  It  breathed  the  very 
spirit  of  those  Articles  of  War  which  Henry  V 
issued  to  the  host  on  the  landing  at  Harfleur.  The 
men  were  worthy  of  it  and  they  lived  up  to  it.  Dur- 
ing the  first  eight  months  of  the  war,  there  were 
only  two  cases  of  offences  against  the  inhabitants 
of  the  country.  The  British  soldier  showed  himself 
to  be  what  he  was — a  gentleman.  The  French  were 
prepared  to  find  him  that;  what  they  were  not  pre- 
pared to  find  was  that  he  was  gay,  witty,  tender,  and 
debonair.  His  playfulness  with  children  delighted 
them;  his  tenderness  to  animals  astonished  them. 
British  gunners  and  drivers  often  show  extraordi- 
nary devotion  to  their  horses,  but  after  all  horse- 
mastership  is  part  of  their  training  and  "ill-treating 
a  horse"  leaves  a  black  mark  on  a  soldier's  conduct- 
sheet  and  has  to  be  expiated  by  F.P.  That,  how- 
ever, does  not  account  for  the  passion  of  a  battalion 
for  making  a  pet  of  a  dumb  animal,  nor  does  it 
explain  the  spectacle,  very  stupefying  to  the  Italians, 
of  a  fox-terrier  marching  at  the  head  of  a  rifle  bat- 
talion and  giving  himself  the  airs  of  a  second-in- 
command. 

There  is  a  sort  of  lyrical  temperament  in  the 
British  soldier;  you  discover  it  in  the  way  he  sings. 
The  French  rarely  sing  on  the  march;  the  British 
often.  It  is  true  the  German  sings — but  he  sings 
to  order.  Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  the 
difference  between  the  British  and  the  German 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  329 

armies  than  the  fact  that  a  song  book — doubtless 
passed  by  the  censor — figures  in  the  German  soldier's 
list  of  necessaries  and  is  absent  from  the  English- 
man's. German  officers  have  been  known  to  strike 
a  man  across  the  shoulders  with  the  endearing  ex- 
hortation :  "  Singen  Sie!  "  The  English  soldier  makes 
his  own  songs  and  sings  them  or  not  as  it  pleases 
him.  I  have  even  seen  in  the  early  days  of  the  war 
a  fatigue-party  of  soldiers,  under  sentence  of  F.P., 
marching  to  their  unsanitary  tasks  singing  "Keep 
the  Home  Fires  Burning" — a  spectacle  which  would 
produce  a  fit  of  apoplexy  in  the  German  mind.  I 
often  think  that,  whatever  else  the  British  Army 
has  or  has  not  done  in  France,  it  has  destroyed 
forever  on  the  Continent  the  legend  of  a  dour 
phlegmatic  England,  hostile  to  cakes  and  ale. 
It  has  restored  the  old  tradition  of  a  "Merrie 
England." 

But  the  British  soldier  has  something  deeper  than 
gaiety  or  wit;  he  has  humour.  The  former  are  tran- 
sient; the  latter  is  permanent.  Wit  is  a  thing  of  the 
intellect,  but  humour  has  its  roots  in  the  character. 
The  British  soldier  is  not  witty  when  in  the  trenches 
— no  one  is — but  he  is  humorous.  Like  every  other 
natural  trait  this  humour  is  largely  unconscious. 
It  is  an  attitude,  not  a  gesture.  As  for  example, 
the  two  men  who — when  out  one  night  in  No  Man's 
Land  lying  in  wait  for  a  German  patrol  that  was 
long  in  coming  their  way — were  heard  by  a  friend 
of  mine,  their  Platoon  Commander,  whispering  to 
one  another:  "I  hope  they  haven't  come  to  no 


330  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

harm,  Bill."  These  men  were  characteristically 
humorous,  but  they  were  not  attempting  to  be 
funny.  There  is  much  fortitude,  some  naivete, 
and  a  good  deal  of  irony  in  the  humour  of  the  British 
soldier.  The  irony  finds  expression  in  his  endearing 
nicknames  for  "unhealthy"  places,  and  there  is  a 
kind  of  fortitude  in  this  irony  as  though  in  stigma- 
tizing a  danger  you  depreciated  it.  There  was 
irony,  too,  in  the  way  the  soldiers  no  sooner  learnt 
that  the  Germans  called  them  "contemptible"  than 
they  accepted  the  adjective  with  delight.  So,  too, 
when  they  heard  that  they  were  "mercenaries"; 
as  soon  as  they  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  term,  the 
idea  that  they  endured  what  they  did,  dazzled  by 
the  opulence  of  a  shilling  a  day,  struck  them  as  a 
really  priceless  jest  for  which  the  Boche  deserved 
every  credit  in  anticipating  them. 

This  same  soldier — cheerful,  humane,  sardonic, 
engrossed  in  learning  how  to  live  the  military  life 
and  to  do  his  bit — has  not  troubled  his  head  about 
how  to  die.  That  is,  I  suppose,  why  when  it  comes 
to  the  point  he  is  so  little  exercised  about  it;  not 
having  sought  to  "save"  his  life,  he  is  hardly  con- 
scious that  he  "loses"  it. 

He  is  as  one 

Who  in  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw 

I  remember  reading  some  words  of  that  fine  sol- 
dier, Donald  Hankey,  in  which  he  speaks  with 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  331 

something  like  indignation  of  the  attempt  of  a 
desperately  well-meaning  chaplain  at  an  open-air 
service  the  night  before  the  men  went  into  the 
trenches,  to  "frighten"  them  with  the  prospect 
of  death.  They  refused  to  be  frightened  and  the 
chaplain's  bag  was  very  small:  I  have  seen  many 
soldiers  die.  I  do  not  know  what,  if  anything, 
they  would  have  said  to  a  padre.  I  only  know 
that  all  I  ever  heard  them  say  was  "IVe  done  my 
bit";  "What  must  be  must  be";  "It  wur  worth  it"; 
"It  bain't  no  use  grousing";  or  "I'm  all  right — I'm 
topping."  I've  often  thought  that  the  secret  of 
their  fortitude  was  that  they  had  done  what  they 
could. 

What  the  soldier  might  teach  the  Churches  is 
that  there  is  only  one  thing  that  really  counts,  and 
that  is  character.  In  the  army  it  is  the  only  chance 
of  distinction  a  man  has,  and  nowhere  is  it  so  quickly 
grasped.  The  soldier  is  less  concerned  with  whether 
a  man's  beliefs  are  "true"  than  with  whether  he 
truly  believes  them.  He  has  no  respect  for  the 
sacerdotal  character  as  such;  what  interests  him 
is  not  the  priest  but  the  man.  He  is  not  interested 
in  religion  as  a  science  but  he  has  some  respect  for 
it  as  an  art.  If  a  padre  is  a  good  fellow  and  sincere 
the  soldier  will  accept  him  as  such,  but  he  will  not 
tolerate  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  assumes  that  he 
and  his  alone  possess  the  keys  of  heaven  and  hell. 
It  is  only  when  the  priest  secularizes  himself  that 
he  can  command  a  sympathetic  hearing.  The 
Church  will  have  to  renounce  all  its  worldly  prestige, 


332  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

forget  its  hierarchical  character,  and  go  forth  like  the 
Twelve  without  gold  or  silver  or  scrip  if  it  is  to  get 
hold  of  the  men  after  this  war. 

I  often  think  that  it  was  an  immense  mistake  ever 
to  give  the  chaplains  commissioned  rank,  for  it  is  a 
case  of  rendering  unto  Caesar  the  things  which  are 
not  Caesar's.  It  puts  a  gulf  between  the  chaplain 
and  the  soldier  which  is  never  bridged  and  it  is  al- 
together anomalous,  for  a  chaplain  has  no  discip- 
linary authority.  He  is  with  the  men  but  not  of 
them.  The  regimental  officer  who  lives,  works, 
and  fights  with  his  men  may,  and  if  he  is  the  right 
sort  he  does,  get  to  know  them,  although  even  then 
the  men  never  talk  with  quite  the  same  freedom 
as  they  do  among  themselves.  But  this  communion 
is  denied  to  the  padre.  I  have,  indeed,  met  chaplains 
in  the  fire-trenches  and  have  known  of  one  or  two 
who,  in  defiance  of  orders,  went  over  the  top.  Their 
willingness  to  take  risks  is  not  in  dispute,  but  that 
is  not  the  point.  The  point  is  that  they  are  only 
spectators  and  privileged  spectators  at  that.  If 
the  clergy  had  been  allowed  to  join  up  and  to  forget 
their  sacerdotal  character  in  the  ranks,  they  might 
have  achieved  great  things.  There  are  some  20,000 
priests  in  the  ranks  of  the  French  Army  as  soldiers. 
I  am  not  arguing  for  the  application  of  conscription 
to  the  clergy,  and  I  daresay  its  application  in  France 
was  anything  but  disinterested — it  was,  I  believe, 
a  political  move  of  the  anti-clerical,  but  it  has 
operated  to  strengthen  the  Church  instead  of 
weakening  it,  for  the  anti-clerical  forget  that  in 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  333 

destroying  a  caste  they  were  creating  a  brother- 
hood. 

One  chaplain  I  knew  was,  indeed,  remarkably  suc- 
cessful. But  then  he  was  far  more  convinced  of 
the  salvation  of  the  men  than  he  was  of  his  own.  I 
suppose  he  was  very  unorthodox;  he  was  certainly 
dying  to  fight.  Also  he  had  no  brotherly  love  for 
the  Boche  at  all;  he  hated  him.  I  forget  his  creed — 
if  indeed  I  ever  knew  it,  for  he  was  the  last  man  to 
obtrude  it.  He  never  tried  to  improve  the  occasion; 
if  a  dying  soldier  wanted  religious  consolation  he 
gave  it,  if  he  did  not  want  it  he  was  content  to  sit 
and  hold  the  dying  man's  hand — and  it  was  no 
bad  viaticum.  The  men  respected  him  as  a  man  and 
loved  him  as  a  brother.  He  was  quite  ready  to  take 
another  chaplain's  duty  and,  what  was  more  remark- 
able, to  let  him  take  his,  for  he  never  seemed  to  be 
exercised  as  to  whether  the  chaplains  of  other  faiths 
than  his  own  had  "grace,"  and  I  don't  suppose  that 
he  ever  vexed  himself  about  apostolic  succession. 
Like  the  Galilean  fishermen  he  was  of  lowly  birth 
and  he  had  the  humility  of  Him  who  washed  the 
disciples'  feet.  I  knew  just  enough  of  his  religious 
beliefs  to  know  that  they  were  the  religion  of  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount.  He  got  his  way  at  last  and 
went  up  with  a  draft  to  the  front.  I  never  saw  him 
again,  but  I  heard  afterward  that  he  was  killed  when 
dressing  a  wounded  soldier  under  fire. 

I  often  think  that  in  his  own  way  that  chaplain 
was  a  born  soldier.  It  was  not  so  much  that  the  men 
had  his  religion  as  that  he  had  theirs.  Theirs  is  a 


334  GENTLEMEN  AT  ARMS 

religion  which  has  never  hardened  into  a  creed;  it  is 
the  religion  of  humanity. 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  gunners  and  drivers  in  the 
retreat  from  Mons  who  got  off  their  horses  and 
limbers  and  walked  in  the  heat  and  dust,  in  order 
that  the  weary  infantry  might  ride;  the  spirit  of  the 
thousands  of  nameless  and  unremembered  men  who 
have  crawled  out  into  the  open  under  fire  to  rescue 
the  wounded  and  been  sniped  for  their  pains;  the 
spirit  of  the  gunner  captured  at  an  observation  post 
who,  though  scourged,  buffeted,  and  despitefully 
used  by  a  German  officer,  broke  his  instruments  be- 
fore his  face  and  refused  to  betray  the  position  of 
his  battery;  the  spirit  of  those  lonely  exiles  who 
held  their  heads  up  and  never  flinched  when  spat 
upon  and  kicked  through  the  streets  of  German 
towns  in  the  long  via  dolorosa  that  leads  to  the  hell  of 
a  Defangenenlager  and  often  to  the  grave. 

It  is  on  those  exiles,  and  their  proud,  indomitable 
spirit,  that  my  mind  most  often  dwells  when  I  think 
of  the  faith  of  the  soldier.  They  were  not  happy  in 
an  opportune  death  on  the  field  of  battle;  they  were 
wounded  not  only  in  body  but  in  spirit;  they  were 
scourged  and  mocked  and  starved  in  an  alien  land 
in  which  the  very  spirit  of  humanity  seemed  dead  and 
hope  deferred  enfeebled  the  heart.  But  they  re- 
fused to  be  cast  down.  The  Germans  robbed  them 


THE  FAITH  OF  THE  SOLDIER  335 

of  everything  but  their  self-respect.  That  remained 
and  it  endured  to  the  end.  Of  such  as  these  a 
great  Englishman  must  surely  have  been  thinking 
when  he  wrote : 

This  man  is  free  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  or  rise  or  fear  to  fall; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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LD  21-32m-3,'74 
(R7057slO)476 — A-32 


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|-:;:lf;; 


